No More To Be Lit
American Spirits; those are Bob’s. And those Marlboro Lights belong to the gasman.What was his name? Hmmm, who smoked the Cool’s? When we plopped this discarded barrel here, the rust was already claiming the surface. After years of scrap-wood fires, hot coals eroded a circumference of woodpecker-like holes halfway down the dilapidated cylinder, spelling out its death knell. Dismantling the jagged metal, I found the butts left by the people who worked here.
Non-smokers and smokers gathered around. Men who didn’t speak the same language.Even guys who weren’t getting along stood shoulder to shoulder welcoming the warmth. This barrel was not only a refuge from frigid temperatures, but also a faculty lounge and social club. Hate to see it go, but the darn thing had split; ashes oozing out, no more to be lit.