Fire, Bugler, And Coffee

He would sit under the tin roof on an old broken down chair Tending all day the small fire He made out of scrap lumber. He would sit for hours untold. He would roll cigarettes from a paper box of Bugler With astonishing dexterity in his stroke crippled fingers then he would puff on his makings For hours on end Till the night enveloped him And the fire played on his ravaged face. All day he would sip his black coffee out of his favorite tin cup The peuter pot he kept warming on a rock by the fire Here under the tin roof, was all he needed His fire, his Buglar, and his coffee He was only fifty nine years old And his body was worn out beyond imagination. His manly hands calloused and scarred His beautiful auburn hair gone white before it's time His body bent forever from long years in the fields Few pleasures were left to him And he found them all under his tin roof Knowing he had a short time to live We were told let him do as he pleases For as long as he wishes, and he can Time was of the essence, he would never follow a diet again. His very words were if i must die Let me die happy And our hearts broke knowing How short life truly is. So he sat, in the dreary Valley in February The mist and drizzle dripping off the tin roof. With his fire, his Buglar, and his black coffee And in March when the weather finally turned sunny and warm He left me, and I never saw him again. FEBRUARY 22nd 2016 Twenty Nine Palms California