Monday, October 14th:
I, often aimlessly, watched the early morning autumn fog drift by my screened porch like Fred's second hand smoke. A slight chill would tickle my bare arms as the haloed sun drifted in and out of sight. Fred always offered his last ‘Port’, as he would call them, just when I wasn't in the mood; sitting, with my pencil and pad… writing just another poem on my day off.
Succumb
Tired, old tree trunk
gold and orange fallen leaves
lay before me.
Whenever I heard his screeching patio door slam and his shabby, brown slippers dragging on the ground, I knew that he was off to the corner store to purchase another pack. I would watch him make his way to the corner with his dingy handkerchief dangling from his soiled jean pocket. I, on the other hand, was your typical sporadic smoker. I never wasted my hard earned dollars on such a harmful investment. Never did mind taking one from Fred though.
Fred was my newfound friend, although I'd been his neighbor for more than three years; a retiree of Direct Airlines from Savannah, Georgia - so content and quiet. He sat on his porch, puffing pounds and pounds of tobacco a month, smiling at the sun.
