A CAN OF SNUFF

He rolls squarely down the middle of our street;
the VA wheelchair’s motor thrums when he guns it
like reveille, always this early every day. At 8 A sharp, this man,

whose cronies now are unable to visit,
runs this same errand. Morning after morning, he taps into
amused contemplation of his brews,

his beverage of choice by day so he can sleep tonight.
At the mom and pop shop down that way,
he purchases two things, packs his own bag,

restarts, reverses, loops back to begin anew with reruns

and the church’s mobile meals. Slouched to one side
from the stroke that felled him, but braced
upright and erect, as best as he can hold

his bones up on his own way home, this old Marine who dealt fresh hell
at Guadalcanal snaps open the packet of reeking Scotch-cut,
cracks the first of six tall chilly cans. And when I ask him why,

he grins. He says, "’Cause smoking’s gonna kill ya."