The Smoke Man

There is a character I had known back at the barracks, That his doings earned him the title 'Smoke man,' He had weird habits that always succumbed to change, He had a way of bringing life to introductions & then deep graves on mid-parts, The only thing he ever finished was his ciggie. His loss of interests shriveled like rains in July, And he lost patience fast, You could hear him complain of hunger at times food delayed over the fire, And when it's finally served, He would take three or at most four spoons, Spit out the last and bark 'Whatever this new recruits can cook, a rat can better, As he pulls out a victim from his cigarette packet. Sometimes I think he found more meaning in cigarette packets, Than in all the Arabic the Janabu spoke, Along with his promises of outcomes, He did not have much, But had never been poor enough not to afford a pack of ciggies. Yesterday he was out on a Valentine's date with a girl, I could sense his excellent starts, As the woman released conservative chuckles and giggles now and then a while later, At one moment he reached into his pockets as if searching for something important, You could puzzle out the anxiety and expectations on his date's face, As if expecting an engagement ring or something of interest, To her disappointed he shoveled out a lighter and smirked. They say time changes people, But for as long as I've known this man, He's never changing, Not until he goes into a grave, Where there are no chairs & cigarettes. *Janabu is an Arabic word for a senior rank military officer © John Ngor Deng