Wandering Soul

I met a man on the train, headed south of here.
He wore a black suit, the lapels crisp as autumn winds.
His hair was brown, slicked back with bacon grease.
He wore a red boutonnière, its petals twisted and wilted.
His smile was diminutive, as if he were afraid.

His words dripped from his tongue, like Dali's clocks.
He spoke in verse, his cadence like birds flitting.
His tongue pondered poison, his heart bleeding on his sleeve.
He drifted through conversation, a wandering soul.
I admired his stature, his height relative to his speech.

I watched him as we traveled, headed further south.
He cried in his sleep, his jacket soon soaked with them.
His whispered dreams spread, seeping into his skin.
He did not cry out, simply weeping against the window.
His lapels were no longer crisp, his flowers wilted.

His last words were lost, the wind snatched them away.
He smiled sadly, climbing down the steps to the platform.
His smile slipped away, all the light blown out like a candle.
He fell to the platform, the blood rejuvenating his boutonnière.
I did not cry, only slid the Derringer back into my bag.