Shadowman

On the Southwest corner

of the suburban purgatory they call west F_____
a man in a ripped denim jacket

slumps, his spine wedged against the streetlight

the metal one on Ash and Pine,

across from the old lumberyard

and the new seven-eleven.

Hes there now! Hiding behind his silhouette-

a mint under his tongue.

He watches his breath tumble in the winter chill

and wishes it were the sweet burning sugar-smoke

of a lit cigarette.

Every night; 12 to 3.

Staring at the light-less eye

of the burnt out bulb

and wishing for a cigarette.

Looking for him? Don’t bother.

Hes quick like a shadow.

He sinks into the blacktop.

You might be so lucky to see his footprints

in the snow.

Feel the warm air

where his body was,

and smell the mint.