I’ve seen smudge pots at auctions,
blackened by decades of smoke.
Usually, they’re lined
in back near the dog pen
with the rusted shovels, double-
bladed axes, sledges, and piles
of rebar. I once met a retired farrier
who collected anvils, and a farmer
who kept his living room
hung with hay hooks and barbed wire.
Somewhere there’s a collector
of smudge pots. Greased
with layers of soot, he knows
their intricacies, the makes
and models, the refinements
of the high end from the low end.
He remembers the merits of smudge,
edging the lonely highway
or thwarting the killing freeze,
the orchards, the dead man's curve.
He lights them still, keeps an old can
of kerosene in the garage.