The Futurist

once the man had found himself
there was nothing more to say
walking into my room one dawn
he said he couldn't stay.

a bit naive i read his book
admired the way he spoke
his empty words so big or small
they hit my floor and broke.

eventually he reached a point
when pipe smoke filled the air
which made it hard to clearly see
no answers floating there.

i've no problem working hard
and soon would have to dress;
he told me he was busy, too,
and drinking so much less.

afraid of age and toothless voice
surviving in the streets,
he was his best at questioning
the misfortunes that he meets.

a gift, he said, but not a fool,
at various times undone
by vagaries from his early days
which kept him on the run.