49

He sits on the green leather
And rolls the cigars over one
By one in their cherrywood
Case so that the trademarks
Show like faces and light
Glances on their fat forms
Dull and flat and coffee.
He lifts one an inch out of
The box with a fingertip
At one end only like an old
Piano tuner at an errant
Key and rotates it on its
Axis fully in his thick fingers
And sets it back in the case.
The green leather is cool blue.
Light is white in the foyer.