a man of mystery waited in a doorway
perhaps he had written a novel when he was young
but now thought that art was obsolete
and that poetry had gone out of life
all these thoughts could be deduced from his demeanor
but even more from his wardrobe
which was made up of equal parts art and infinity
because he was a man of the world, in the old-fashioned sense
perhaps he had painted a picture when he was young
or drawn up a blueprint for the complete restructuring of human society
because the end times are coming
and sorrow will envelop the earth
the man of mystery is waiting
for something, anything, to show him a sign
but night is falling
and the headlights of a patrol car appear at the end of the street
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