51

He lifts the lighter between thumb
And middle finger from the inner
Left pocket of his grey suit jacket
And tosses it up and catches it
With it glinting silver in the air
And gyrating, and in arrest it
Is dull and burnished, still in his
Palm, and he manipulates it in
His knuckles slowly and then takes
A cigarillo from the right pocket
Coffee coloured in the dim bar door
And lights the cigarillo teasing the
End with the flame and the lighter
Closes with a sound like a trap.
The smoke billows slightly in the
Doorway like pigment in water and
He watches the raindrops break
At the worn heel of the curb,
Brushing with a grained hand
At the parrot-yellow kerchief folded
In the breast pocket of his suit.