He took off his tie,
after taking off
his suit coat. With
an open collar on
his starched, white
shirt which always
smelled of tobacco
smoke, he would mow
the lawn. I would see
him as I walked home
from the school bus.
He said he would be
with me in a jiff in the
lot behind our house,
a small, wood trailer
for the backstop. He
pitched with a cigarette
dangling from his lips.
Then he would take the
cigarette out of his
mouth and tell me to
keep my eye on the ball.
Later, sitting at the
kitchen table, cup of
coffee in front of him,
he would take a long,
loving drag on a cigar-
ette and tell me to
never, ever start such
a filthy habit. The only
time I saw him without
the starched, white
shirt that smelled of
tobacco smoke was
in the evening with the
drapes closed and he
sat in the living room
with a lit cigarette
in the ash tray as I got
ready for bed. Then I
saw his armless, white
undershirt tucked into
his dress pants. The
undershirt smelled of
tobacco smoke as he
gave me a hug goodnight.