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S R Mats Feb 2015
I smell the sweet scent of pipe.  
In your quietness, the memory curls around my head
Like the smoke from one of your smoldering cigars.
Your hand, cigar still between *******,
Going up and into snow white hair, flickers
Briefly through my mind in the halo of smoke.
Then it is back to covering your intelligent face
With the latest newspaper, a barrier between
You and your world.

— The End —