the way a smoker caresses a fat cuban cigar, rolling it gently between thumb and forefingers, examining the lines, breathing in the aroma of the dried leaves.
the way he grasps the foil band, slides it ever so gently down the length and girth of the cigar, before snipping or biting off the tip.
the way he strikes the match or flint to cause the spark, ignition. and draws in deep the first warm breaths of nicotine.
the way he fills his lungs and waves match through air closes lighter cover with a flick, and silent sits inhaling.
the way he watches breaths wafting upward from his lit cigar. the same breaths he will labor for in days to come, traded now for the comforting presence, the warm infilling, heady draught.
that is
the way i trade silver ribbed quarters to buy books, whose scent wafts upwards, old books. the kind that have seen ages and kept their secrets. the aroma of memory.
the way i grasp one in hand, run my hand over cover, page. turning it between thumb and forefingers, gazing at words to see if they captivate me.
the way i check bindings and flyleaf, for age and care, wear and tear. indicators all of value. who wrote it, when and where, do they have something to say.
the way my eyes skim pages, looking for anything redeemable. i'm willing to give a lot of grace, wanting to be impressed, by these stolen glances, but many do not warrant my caressing eyes, nor even move my hand to take them up. i'm a connoisseur that way, i guess.
the way i hold them close to my chest, when i want them, pressing them toward my pulsing heart, and move to pay whatever i must pay to bring them home. trading these silver coins for words that may in turn give me more than i ever imagined.
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perfectly imperfect, impeccably flawed, wildly tame, certainly uncertain, seriously silly, simply complex, boldly meek, richly penniless, irreverently reverent, brutally honest, consistently inconsistent, traditionally untraditional, comfortably uncomfortable, master servant, reputably disreputable, extraordinarily ordinary, literally metaphoric, socially reclusive, functionally dysfunctional, conservatively liberal, punctual lately, beautiful disaster, morbidly optimistic
siouxsiepoetuncensored
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3 comments:
Suz, this is very different for you, but this is beautiful.
i was writing from ignorance, but it was an idea i had, punctuated by phone calls and demands mundane. i'm amazed it is anything.
thanks, as always.
suz. (to live in a land without phones, that is what i wish. though i'd be lost without being able to talk to my friends/sister)
The way you take words and wrap your imagination around them. The way you see the littlest of details. The way that you relay them. The way that you write. Amazing.
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