THE THINKER’S CIGAR
The strike of the match,
its sandpapered skid, the laying
onto a bed of flame, that first rotation,
like a skewer and spit—a return
to the beginnings of subsistence.
Here—nothing to devour
but the flesh of the draw,
the meat in the embers
sliced off by the lips, the meal of it
nourishing beyond a bodily strength.
I won’t lift stone while I smoke,
or fire brick from sand and clay;
I won’t pour concrete,
set columns or beams—
this is the mind’s feeding.
Tilted on a velvet-backed chair
I roll up the wrapper’s sleeve,
the leeched arm of ash a dusty white
ready to fall, spent,
like collapsed rubble,
the remains of something once built.
Recalling an evening smoke
April 18, 2015
Sir Winston Churchill
Oil on Canvas - 1942