The hat
Dust and black grease-soiled
Rumpled pack
Marlboros half-empty before his searching fingers
Fresh
White cigarette
Old cold lungs. Wizened face.
Cardboard matchstick struck
Dimmer the flame in the rising day
Coffee on the Liar’s Bench
Every early morning
Outside the Shell Service Station
Cast in the shade of why
He can only sit there
Seeing the morning
A little longer than before