Cap peeling back despite what its maker says. Veins and wrinkles stretching as if mocking the surgeon general straight to the tip. Lit, it droops with the weight of ash but struggles to redeem itself, holding on to its cremated limb. Too weak, it lets go leaving only a small pyramidal glow. Does it cry in smoke or is it only hazy defiance at its nearing snub into sand? The red glow crawls toward my mouth with greed. Twenty or thirty draws in, the taste picks up. Nutty? Leathery? A hint of chocolate? Not that I can taste. The wind gives in and the cigar excrement hangs around. It circles and waves to its handmade progenitor from Brazil. Returning to Bacardi flesh it inhales its fuel and glows anew. Slightly damp on its scalp it trembles now having lost its dominant appearance its virgin state deflowered by match and mouth and so it withers and disintegrates with the age that once made it magnificent. It’s stubby now and ugly. Its ring no longer brash and flashy simply seems to hold it together. Its South American heritage seems under appreciated on my patio. My single language speaking mouth leaving a dirty taste on it. It warms my fingers to the end the taste sweet now even flowery despite the Puerto Rican swishes. The gold label has done his job. The night done and my summer complete.
