He Had An Insatiable Appetite

The smoker had an insatiable appetite
      For cigarettes.
And sweet coffee. Very light.

      Something about him
Always attracted the attention
      Of khaki-pants-brown-loafers
Whenever he'd stop by
      Early in the morning on a Saturday
      To pick up the overnight newspaper
      And a cup of coffee.
The smoker would be there.
      He'd always been there.
Smoking up a storm.
      Or filling up coffee
With 10 or more packets of sugar.
      And tons of cream.

Sometimes the Saturday streets and sidewalk
      Would appear damp
Either from a passing Friday-night front
      Or from the collective ramains
Of the morning dew.

      Or maybe the filmy coating was the collective sweat
Of the generally poor migrant workers of the farming district
      That surrounded the town proper.
Maybe the smoker was a refugee
      From years spent racing the weather and the calendar
      To get the crop in the ground.
Maybe the pressure had finally gotten to him
      One March or April
And the damage done to his emotional gas tank
      Had left him delirious
      With an appetite
      For cigarettes.
And sweet coffee. Very light.

Khaki-pants-brown-loafers walked
      Under the shade of irregularly planted trees.
He tripped over broken pieces of sidewalk,
      Slate that had once been level
But now ran perpendicular to several different planes,
Thanks to the massive strength of one of Mother Nature's mighty trees,
      Their roots enforcing their will
      On mere man-made arrangements.
Khaki-pants-brown-loafers walked out of the store this morning
      Paper under an arm,
      Corn-beef bun in a small brown bag
      And coffee too-hot-to-drink-just-yet
      Burning through his fingertips,
      Burning through the hot beverage styrofoam cup.
Two black squirrels played
Beneath a bush in front of the antique store across the street,
      Although what appeared like play to khaki-pants-brown-loafers
Might, in fact, have been a raw struggle to survive.
      The smoker didn't even notice.

The smoker put one one butt
      And flamed up a new one,
"In practically the same motion,"
      Commented Khaki-pants-brown-loafers to himself.
"A human chimney he is.

"What happened to him that he turned out this way?
      Need I fear turning out like him,"
      Khaki-pants-brown-loafers debated to himself,
"When Wall Street's fields turn fallow and parched?
      Even if I tried to help
Would it be any good, would it reach through?
      How do I pray for him tomorrow?
How do I pray for the smoker?
      And does he pray for me?
Is this what becomes of hobos?
      Not some Woody Guthrie song,
But this, a smoker,
      His emotions plowed under and turned to dust?
He is turned into smouldering coals,
      Turned into cigarette paper
Glowing in the dim shadows of dawn,
      Half-asleep, half-alive,
Wheezing,
      With an insatiable appetite
      For cigarettes.
And very sweet coffee. Very light.
      Could I ever become this?
What does he think about when he thinks?
      Where does he go from here?"

As Khaki-pants-brown -loafers walked away
      He heard the smoker hack up more phlegm.
      Wash it back down
      With another cigarette.
And very sweet coffee. Very light.

      The smoker
Continued to sit in front of the small-town deli
      As brown-station-wagon-power-windows
Made a u-turn back to a new development city
      For breakfast.


For Conversations With Walt
Denis J. Kelly
May 10, 2011