Cigar Man

Cigar Man

You know, Scott I'm a cigar

man

Tom is leaning back in the

wooden chair

he chooses

when he comes

to my attic

He draws light, short puffs

into his mouth

Enough years

in Germany

and you achieve a European taste:

fine cigars dark beer

old books

Here's one

and he cracks open

Ezra Pound breaths rhythms

into the air

between us

Outside the prairie

is angry

attic walls creak

with the harsh wind

so we stay a bit longer

postponing the pressing out

of cigars

the putting down

of books