By: Robert Beveridge

 

“Not your grandfather’s smoke
shop”, the billboard asserts, and
I guess that’s a true thing, since
my grandpa was a surveyor, not
a tobacconist. We always say
we’re not averse to exploration,
will check it out someday, yet
someday never comes, Instead,
we head home, open the door,
throw in some more wood, and
set the offal on the racks, stuffed
with oats, amaranth, the meat
of a thousand squirrels. Tomorrow,
the feast; tonight, we sit, smoke.