On The Stoop Poem by robert dickerson

He sat still and stiller still
like a statue posing as a man
(the soughing trees boiled, in comparison)
knowing he could quit at will;
a passerby: 'quit sleepin'. 'Ain't. I'm thinkin'.
and, under his breath: 'ever hear of it'?
'Cigarettes. I'm tryin' t' quit-
but he continued puffing away and stinking
til one day the habit left him clean
as inexplicably as it had came-
gone tobacco-love, the burning tip
powerless, now, to bend a will.
Nothing was the same as it had been
and new change rang brightly in his pocket.