Inside his old corduroy jacket,
there in the lining of his pocket,
the old man can always find
a pinch of tobacco.
He sits on his porch, eyes closed,
a proud grin under his bearded chin.
Reaching in his pocket he runs his fingers
Over the unsmoked leaves.
Leaves play on the lawn,
dancing in and out of the shadow of a porch light.
Autumn creeps in quietly and fills his lungs.
Tobacco did always smell sweeter in November.