A Wisp of Smoke

He asked me for gloves
And I had a new pair
So I gave them to him.
He was effusive in his thanks.
He is always effusive in his thanks.

Every time I see him
There is less of him.
I expect some day
He will turn into
A wisp of smoke
And blow away.

He was sober this time.
But by noon
He will find some liquor
And pass out on the porch
Of the abandoned house
Across the street.

He could be sixty

But he may be thirty.
The streets exact its fee
In years.

I will see him again.

Probably as
A wisp of smoke.