A Good Cigar

A story of a China that never was and a cheap, cardboard cigar with a sweet, pungent aroma. Coffee, black from this diner and a book of matches from a different one. The water condenses, the diner is humid as I read a book and smoke this cigar.  

A man, as he leaves, asks if I really enjoy cigars. I say yes. "I don't know you but take mine, it's a good Mexican cigar." Half smoked, he hands it to me. His friend nods in approval as they leave. I end my cheap one in the ashtray and clean out the new one, slightly used, with my car key. I wipe the ash on my new trousers. It takes two matches to light. The aroma is faint but the smoke is smooth. I read my book, drink coffee, and smoke. Getting lost in a good story I neglect the cigar. I need to re-light the cigar, however it is spent and my coffee pot is empty too.

I read a newspaper article on President George W. Bush’s potential to be like President Herbert Hoover. No family debt relief, no wage increases. I contemplate a haiku for a city poetry contest as I finish the water, the ice gone from the glass.  A small pile of trash, a full ashtray, and an empty cup, I leave my last five dollars on a $1.39 bill. It is four a.m. and I leave to go home. The coffee, black, was never bitter.