A Fine Cigar

I like a good cigar ever so often. It’s an old habit I carried with me from my restaurant days at Dominic’s; the Italian place we owned on the city island of Peoria, in the Central Illinois Archipelago. Every weekend, after the dinner rush, I sat at the bar and smoked with the customers. A Gloria Cubana rubusto, or an Avo pyramid where two of my regulars from the humidor.

Last fall, I sat out on the porch, writing and enjoying a fine stooge my buddy Dave H. gave me. As the sun was giving way to the stars I wrote a few lines about the cigar.

Damn Cigars

I hate cigars.

I mean I love them, but that’s why I hate them.

The damn things are so bad for you but they are so damn good.

So much contradiction rolled up in the

Ephemeral spirit smoke solid

As a sledge hammer on your nicotine rattled pallet late

On a hot summer night slow walking down 

The crowded streets of downtown

Manhattan rising above with the smoke spirits,

The lights of night,

The traffic rushing like big shouldered water through  

The canyon of sixth street.

Yeah, roll that Cuban torpedo again, across your

Ivory whites and you have the world,

The whole world at your feet.

Yeah, I love cigars. 

Hay Johnny, is that a White Owl Cigarillos SanGria you got there?

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