He'd once seen New York hipsters.

He played the part so well it seemed he had once been one.

He'd once flopped around New York's districts.

Sat in apartment's looking over the river after art shows, shooting and snorting.

Living the dream.

He knew what was cool.

And though he lived here now he still managed the look.

This was not just a fashionable nod.

Pebble stone dark glasses.

Colour washed trousers loosely rolled.

Dark t-shirt.

And large, leather bomber cross baseball jacket.

Deck shoes and what looks like a buddhist's cold mountain hat

His tan is more sallow skin and dirt, but still the show of ankle and the curling hair.

He looks down on his luck.

Like luck's ran out.

Will he ever get back to cool?