I Knew Him Well

A poem inspired by a work found in a small unknown poetry book. I was playing the game 777.

I knew him well, and every truant knew;
​His soft step, like a fox prowling in the night,
His ardent manner; his insistence on the truth in scientific facts

          he'd picked up from aged library books on sticky summer afternoons.

He wasn't my friend nor my companion though I knew him well and every truant knew;
He didn't consume supper on Sundays, Instead he indulged in a hearty breakfast

          at Monday sunrise,
And he wished only the necessary to be spoken and the inane to be hushed.
He despised his mother, yet sought her motherly advice.

He wasn't my neighbor, though I knew him well, and every truant knew;
He never skipped church, yet could hardly remember bible verse or hymnal tune.
His bedroom was musty, littered with conspiracy essays written by a 

          senile uncle in Tallahassee.

No one knew his name,
And, quite frankly, no one cared to know it.

He was the equivalent of an apparition who's entire existence eluded

          anyone who might look upon his bedraggled aspect.

Yes, I knew him well, and every truant did, too.

Author's Note

Please be honest with your opinions and suggestions, but remember that we all have feelings, so be courteous and civil! :))