Chris Three

I paint like Bernardo alone, walk with a weary gait, feel my shoes worn, bring cognac to my table, napkins folded on a plate, feed my ravenous frame, no picture to look upon, swaying like a knave, wanting my work done, unshaven waiters, in winter cafes, sometimes call my name, women before me clamp, buttered hair on trains, say it makes them Glam, paintings are what I crave, museums have a lonely gaze, on short uncertain forays, they shine beneath a lamp, they could be my fame, this small room my last, to forge my name.