They carry the scent
Of cheap cigarettes
Not the stately pipes
Or
Classy cigars
But cigarettes,no brand
No box, to hold them
Only their pockets
A lighter?
Not for these men
The soothing familiar sound
Of
Matches dancing in the box
'A smoke, machang?'
One would ask
The sheepish smile
Like that of a child
'Yamu, yamu'
Lets go, he says
They go
No comments:
Post a Comment