Any Saturday morning he�d sit
at the kitchen table in a guinea-T,
read the Sun Times, folded in half long ways.
Black coffee vapor mixed with the smell
of hot lard and the jump of polkas
from the radio on the fridge.
He�d light a Marlboro: Cling! Schick! Clop!
The magic wand dangled from the right
corner of his lip a downward angle,
like a tree grows from the side
of a cliff. He would never remove it,
but exhale the smoke with the cigarette
between his lips. The long ashes he refused
to flick would roll down his shirt and into his lap.
When only the filter remained, the butt would be
mashed into the grease and egg residue
on the breakfast plate. It disgusted Ma.
Dad, that�s filthy. Next time I�ll serve your
breakfast on an ashtray.
He would chuckle low, then pretend to ignore her-
Back to the newspaper and light another
to signify the start of the third crossword
of the morning: Cling! Schick! Clop!
Sometimes I would hold out my young palm,
ask him to drop the long ash into it.
I knew it wouldn�t burn.
It never did, but I winced anyway
as he held onto my wrist, laughing.
Now, I stand here, Zippo in my own hand.
There is comfort in the feel of it, the sound of it:
Cling! The top opens.
Schick! The wheel grinds the flint to spark-
a moment�s pause as the flame lunges
upward to meet the tip of the Marlboro, then-
Clop! The lid closes.