The Smoke Man

Each time I call the wispy man, I need to light a fire for smoke that's all he asks for anything smoke's his favourite plaything. Once it was a ciggarete he came with paper on his tongue and fires in his eyes, but all his fingers curled and dissolved and his hair escaped through my airconditioner. Another it was black cigars, I stirred the air and he appeared, fat and twisted a crumpled man, rich and dark and he could give me anything I wanted. And smoke was all he needed. And all he asked for. Crushed in his jaws were five cigars with the glowing ends between his teeth he breathes the wrong way round, being a backwards sort. He floats away when he'd rather stay the curse of being mostly dust. But more solid than most, when there's flames to lick him he can't leave, he's more reliable than other men. I burn some incense sticks, watch them sputter, hum like an fly in a glass jar, and then I trap the smoke man. he's sitting on my shelf, and I don't need to sacrifice. riddle answer: pair of shoes