The Future Man
He shuffles up in baggy
wool pants, cuffs frayed,
cleaving to the heel,
inside hollow pockets
are formulas writ on
newsprint with sticks of
willow, his coattails flap
like fingers in the wind
His diamond cufflinks are
missing teeth, his hat of fancy
dust cocked askew. He thinks I
can’t see through his disguise, but
I’d know those bones a mile away
He comes on like a
gambler but his cards
are worn thin, I can see
right through to the next
hand, and if he drops anything
at all on the table it’s brass or
maybe a handful of promises dark
like coal or slugs cut from pig iron
brought down from the motor city
I don’t give him time to scatter his
wail, today’s a good day not to die,
so when he opens up his slack jaw I
don’t fall for that weakness, but turn
at the proper angle to make him obscure
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