Some say that he is a ghost—man who is spirit, or at least
a man who knows his spirits well.  His boozy breath gets
worse through the evenings when his mind needs escape
from the desperate darkness troubling his bones.  Sadness.

He moves through town quietly, a nod, a smirk, a chortle
when he eyes someone eyeing him.  Aye, to see him
is to question everything—humanity, peace, poverty, power.
He holds these things with fingerless gloves and grace.

Rumors tell of a riches to rags route, a journey he will 
confirm and deny with a shrug of his shoulders.  Chin tilted
sideways, he turns the other cheek while gazing at
the infinite above us.  He sees things that we don’t.

I want to know and understand as he does.  What wisdom, what 
freedom, what calm he seems to know; while I am more familiar 
with clean clothes, new car smell, bills, anxiety, and fear.