Nora

They say he's been a champ, but walks with weary gait, senses my cologne is damp, I'll ask him to my table, brought here by old waiters, to feed his eormous frame, not a picture to look upon, swaying like a knave, sighing his work is done, unshaven in gaiters, a gas fired winter cafe', he wonders if I'll faint, women around me act alone, love his oily battered face, a hundred ways to charm, fighting's brought him fame, his museum a lonely place, smiles at uncertain forays, I stare from under my lamp, wet lights above his name, is the world his caravan, does he know his own game ?