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     Hot and humid nights,
I see him there,
sitting in a cocoon of afghans.
As he counts threads
and the puffs of his pipe,
his eyes roll up slowly to watch the
rings rise higher until they crash into
the overhang of the porch.
Through the slicing blades of a fan,
I watch him
shiver in the heat
and curl further into his cocoon.
He is waiting until he can drift
up
like the smoke rings
and
disappear.