like shooting fish

smokey is an ever-present blast,
what he does and apparently loves,
lingers past rationality, but stops short of breaking any laws.
what does he do for a living? chain smoke.
no tobacco police have sought him out,
his heart’s not on his sleeve but behind a wheel;
nor does he wear his religion on his overalls,
rather behind or atop a machine.
he can’t be all bad since he dresses for the weather.
he daily tips a styrofoam cup, a tribute to pollution,
a conformity to lazy, pre-packaged convenience.
sometimes he sits on a bucket when time is on his hands.
smokey puffs on a virtually endless cigarette,
each waking moment, i can verily attest,
consciously inserting nicotine after nicotine
after flicked but after flicked butt.
what does smokey love? motorized motivators.
his friends - yellow, green, and orange and white
lawnmowers, a forest green pickup truck recently
ditched for a new friend in shiny red.
his best friend - a self-described, ‘racing machine,’
with my appropriate appellation, the grey beast,
to be exercised as an exercise in self-satisfying,
rumbling, trembling, gas-guzzling flagellation.
an acquaintance - an elongated nomad motor home
a groupie woman - meant to serve him, hatless,
her cap feathered by the allure of another sexy truck
visitors - are many, boys from another generation
wear their hats backwards, kindred men worship
at his barn door entrance to his throne room.
taking potshots at smokey is like shooting fish barrel.
mind-boggling, his countless daily trips to and fro,
whence on the road of significance i’ll never know.
i count his machines - 4, 5, 6, 7, 8 are enough to
guarantee perpetual motion. what motivates smokey,
to embrace each day are the internal combustion machine
and carcinogenic smoke. fearless of thoughts
of "faith-based scumbags in Mesopotamia,"
no goal in mind except to place another cigarette
into its proper sanctum... and ride .