I see him every day
Stumbling by the streets that are as old as him.
His wispy air tumbles past his shoulders
As his eyes glaze down and out.

Sometimes I see him walk
And hover without a mouth
It only appears for a cancer stick
That he drains the tobacco clean.

Each time I pass the shield of smoke
He puts up where he sits
I wonder when the day will come
He finishes his final one.

Because I know once he was young too
And I've yet to come by and sit with him
And ask his story after I say these words,
"Hello, old man."