From 'the Double' 101 Poem by Morgan Michaels

'What do you mean, what do I mean'? , asked Langley, one Saturday at lunch.'That's not what I asked'.

The lunch was over. For dessert, Langley was having one of the powerful Cuban cigars and expelling blue smoke through his nose into the air above the table. By legend, Cuban cigars were the non plus ultra of their tribe. For some reason, they had no competitors. Langley wanted to learn first hand why they ranked so highly and why they brooked no rivals. He was a curious man. It so happened they were cheap and available and lent themselves well to the study. They were also snugly attractive and portable, unlike the Malecon, he observed.He was only an occasional cigar smoker and no expert on tobacco. Still the cigars were embargoed in his own country, though available in Canada. That alone recommended them. It took practice to learn how much smoke was bearable until it wasn't. That limit only slightly exceeded, the potent fumes went to the head and caused him to question his questions.

'What did you want to know'?

Miggi gave him a cowish look over the edge of the newspaper. His mouth was filled with yellow rice. An answer required him to swallow. Swallowing also gave him time to compose an answer.

'Say again'?

'Do you want to come to church, tomorrow'?

'Por que'?

'What do you mean 'por que'?

Langley expelled more smoke from his nostrils.

'I mean 'por que', he said, with greater volume.

Miggi thought this was an awful idea and the waste of a good Sunday morning. He also thought it was a dangerous precedent. But he didn't want to hurt Langley's feelings.

Langley thought it plain enough.

'To be there. As my convert'.

'As your what'? asked Miggi, in disbelief.

'My convert', confirmed Langley.

'What for'?

Langley leaned forward and said in a loud whisper

''Because I'm very good in the pulpit'.

Miggi took refuge behind the paper.

'Forget it', he snapped, after a moment.

He drained his cup and looked 'round for the waiter.