Cigars


A Poem About Grandpa Rich

I will never smell cigars
without smelling the summers
spent on your front porch telling
stories around the flickering fire.

You wore suspenders over a
white teeshirt, and smelled like
the brown stub you held in your hand.
I ran my fingers through your white hair
using the lingering grease on your head
to form a tiny mohawk.

How could I have known
that my days spend with you were limited?
I thought I would always have you,
Grandpa, around to hold.
How could I have known that soon,
you'd be gone?

You masked the pain you felt each day.
Every time we'd ask, you'd reply "Just fine".
Sometimes I think of the mechanic chair
you used to sit in. You relied on it to lift
you high enough where you could slide
your feet to the ground with ease.
Oh how I miss your smile & jolly laughter
greeting me when I walk through your doorway,
and the circular smoke you'd puff from your
treasured, freshly cut, brown, stubby cigars.

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