Mud puddles
Seeping
Is that mud?
Nah, prob’ly jus’ …
Just what?
He thought for a while,
Adjusting the stance
Of his cigar between his thin lips,
Barely covering the hole in his face.
In the dank silence,
I stared, and began to wonder…
How could he stand it?
The noisome smoke,
Right under his nose-
The rough texture
On lips that could not quite afford anymore sand-papering…
He took a drag, finally looked back down, and answered.
It’s mud.
We both knew it wasn’t mud,
But the foulness that seems to follow
The human wherever he
Would wander….
As I contemplated, he spat,
And added his own contribution.