writer's digestion

i heard he smoked a pipe with reverence,
holding one in a state of respectful admiration.
so sweet that draw, deep and dark,
into his healthy lungs forever and forever
he would suck
until the chill cooled the fire.
and i heard he wrote lines of verse,
employed an intuitive eye, and believed that
his mind was farsighted.
he saw the smoke rub around his nose,
and curl effeminately into the watching eye.
i heard he had a following, too, and was selected
9th and 11th place out of a possible 50,
once upon a time.
and his pipe was content as his fingers held the stem,
stroked the bowl, and inhaled  the deep and the dark.
he never seemed superstitious about the smoke, which
like a little cat, purred against his happy face.