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
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