Mr. A. Fuente
I am well acquainted
with Mr. A. Fuente.
I first met him twenty years ago
when I bought a box
of his cheap cigars,
only fifty cents each then,
now about a buck,
to give away at the birth
of my only son, my only child.
I gave half the box of fifty away,
smoked the rest,
the cigar the taste of Florida,
Sarasota's clean salt air,
the surprise of my son's birth.
Soon I was smoking a Hemingway from time to time.
Today I smoke his Cuban Corona
sitting outside on the back steps,
steps like a Baltimore or a New York stoop,
jazz playing in the living room
wafting through the kitchen
and the open kitchen door
to where I sit in the cool night air
listening to the music
and the sound of the crickets,
everything good, everything
clean and well lit and the nothing
of a week spent in
nothing work dissipating