My little penthouse has a little porch

And just across the narrow quiet street,

There’s another little penthouse that has a little porch

That just so happens to be facing mine.

And on that little porch across mine,

There’s an old hunched man who sits in his old wicker chair

Trying to light a cigarette with shaking withered fingers

Every morning without fail.

The cigarette between his teeth would quiver

Beneath his gray overgrown mustache

Until he’d get frustrated enough to curse

And the cigarette would fall.

Every morning without fail.

He’d then get up from his old wicker chair,

Disappear for just a minute with a different lighter,

Reach into his brown pocket for a new cigarette

And try to light it again.

Every morning, I’d watch the old man try to light his cigarette

Before I’d go to work and after five minutes I’d have to leave.

And every morning without fail as I’d close the door of my little penthouse shut,

I’d wonder how long it took the little old man in his wicker chair

To light his cigarette.