The Smoking Monkey

Atop the block, there sits, and sits, and waits, and hopes, and dreams, a lone and lonesome, longing figure, out in the cold of midwinter. A smoking monkey it seems is there, ever atop the block each night. And why is it that this monkey be there? To taunt me with every striking stare, with every haunting glare, the smoke from that monkey's pipe bellowing out into the cold winter air.