Christhree

I paint like Marcel Duchamp, and walk with weary gait, sense my socks are damp, bring cognac to my table, steaming dishes by measured pace, feed my ravenous frame, I#m no picture to look upon, swaying like a knave, wanting my work done, unshaven waiters, in winter cafes, often watch me faint, women before me claim, with buttered hair on trains, love is just a game, the painting's stuff i crave, museums have a lonely grace, on lone uncertain forays, they shine beneath a lamp, that could be my fame, this small room my last, to forge a name.