THE GENTLEMAN CAME TO PLAY (poem)

I usually try to find companion photos with all of my original poems. That said, do you know how damn hard it is to find a pic of a cool, elegant dude playing baccarat? The closest representation of who I'm writing about is none other than Don Draper. If you don't know who Don Draper is... click HERE.



THE GENTLEMAN CAME TO PLAY
His crisp white shirt pressed
Black loafers,
spit-shined to perfection;
The Hair? dapper as ever.
Thanks to the pomade.
And that gorgeous suit,
direct from Saville Row,
the one he bought
for last year's party
(but never wore) waits
on the old valet;
Hasn't been worn since.
The silk tie itself
a piece of art,
would make Cary Grant proud;
especially because it
meets perfectly at his
belt;

His cologne,
spicy and musky,
dolloped behind each ear;

After adjusting his good luck
cuff links through
each jacket sleeve,
he fingers her paisley
handkerchief into his pocket;
His good luck charm;
A token he'd never gamble without;

Fussing with it,
he can still smell her perfume,
a mix of sandalwood and rose;
he finds it intoxicating.

His Cartier tank reads 7:45 p.m.;
right on schedule.
He's ready to tango
with Lady Luck;

Downstairs,
where the action is,
he wades through
the crowded casino floor
and sits at the high-limit
baccarat table.

Fellow gamblers
greet him by name;
Immediately, a cocktail girl
jets over and smiles
a tad more than she should;
he orders a Jameson, neat;
He wins when he sips it
every 7 minutes;

He lights a Dunhill
and greets the dealer
who simply nods
after he places a
modest bet;

Everyone knows now
that the gentleman came
to play