The cigar smoke curled into a halo around his graying head.
Yesterday's newspaper lay open at a page showing a man,
healthy, vigorous, with a cigarette.
A small smile curled his lips
and he let his gaze drift on the smoke
to the window.



* * * * * *
He reached behind the counter,
pulled out another packet.
Here you go, sir, come again.
A sign above a box said
'we value your feedback'.
The bell above the door tinkled – it had barely stopped that day.
A mudalali walked in – out of stock
so soon, Nonis? in surprise he asked.
And reached again behind the counter.




* * * * * *
He leaned his burning head against the cooling glass -
The glass whose shine and cigarettes were shuttered.
But people liked it – else how did it sell so fast?
He thought of the huge new factory and shuddered.
How would he pay? It was a trick
he'd fallen for the door bell silent
after that first heady week.
Now nobody came and went,
excepting him, and he'd go too -
there didn't seem much else to do.

In the night, a bullet's sound.
The glowing stub the bombers found.




* * * * * *
The cigar smoke hid his graying head
as in a mist.
Adjusting spectacles he read the obituary list.
Then seeming satisfied he leaned
back in his easy chair
A funny smile his old face seamed
in triumph – he was still there.