Poem for Poetry Thursday
I'm literally shrugging my shoulders wondering where this poem came from. All I can tell you is that I followed the Poetry Thursday prompt and this is what I got. However, I did wake up with the title in my head.
The Last Cigar
Smoke ’em while you got ’em!
and that’s what everyone did
until all the cigars in the world
were gone. Ropes of smoke
wafting up to heaven, creating
blankets of sweet smog. Tobacco fields
were turned into low-income housing;
the wrappers became biodegradable containers
for grape tomatoes and strawberries.
And the people went about their lives,
until a man in a town on the outskirts
found a perfectly preserved cigar
in his damp basement. He longed
to take this tightly rolled bundle
between his lips, but instead
he told a few gypsies and
not soon after, his lone discovery
was placed in a glass humidor.
It toured the country like a rock star,
complete with an entourage
and green and blue M&Ms at every stop.
Eventually, the last cigar was placed in
The Smithsonian.
True believers who missed the taste of smoke
came out in droves to see the famed torpedo,
the scent of phantom leaves still fresh
on their fingertips.
As for the man,
he was grateful that time dimmed
his recall of some things—aftertaste,
the smell of burnt air leaving traces
wherever he went. How satisfied he’d be
if he wasn’t walking through his landfill of a mind
wondering what Freud would do.
The Last Cigar
Smoke ’em while you got ’em!
and that’s what everyone did
until all the cigars in the world
were gone. Ropes of smoke
wafting up to heaven, creating
blankets of sweet smog. Tobacco fields
were turned into low-income housing;
the wrappers became biodegradable containers
for grape tomatoes and strawberries.
And the people went about their lives,
until a man in a town on the outskirts
found a perfectly preserved cigar
in his damp basement. He longed
to take this tightly rolled bundle
between his lips, but instead
he told a few gypsies and
not soon after, his lone discovery
was placed in a glass humidor.
It toured the country like a rock star,
complete with an entourage
and green and blue M&Ms at every stop.
Eventually, the last cigar was placed in
The Smithsonian.
True believers who missed the taste of smoke
came out in droves to see the famed torpedo,
the scent of phantom leaves still fresh
on their fingertips.
As for the man,
he was grateful that time dimmed
his recall of some things—aftertaste,
the smell of burnt air leaving traces
wherever he went. How satisfied he’d be
if he wasn’t walking through his landfill of a mind
wondering what Freud would do.
Comments
Catherine: Yes, I think we all stretched ourselves this week.
ren.kat: Thanks for your kind words.
sheela: Thanks for stopping by!
I could almost smell the smoke, just reading it.
Oh, btw, it's up in the air, a little, about the AWP in Atlanta for me. Will likely be definite after the holidays. Are you going?
--D.--
Tobacco fields
were turned into low-income housing
...wouldn't it be amazing if that came true.
This is sillily* wonderful, if I may say so.
*Yes, that's what I meant to say.
Was wondering why the inversion on this line...
until a man in a town on the outskirts
instead of
until a man on the outskirts of a town
Jim, I dunno. I just wanted to phrase the line differently. I wanted to start outward and move inward. Does that make sense? I also wanted his perspective to be slightly different than everyone else’s. Does that make sense?
What I didn't do is read it out loud for the rhythm. I'll try that this weekend to see if it makes a difference.