That was the year when he stayed <br />Without work, for a living played <br />Cards, or backgammon; or borrowed and never paid. <br /> <br />He was offered a place at a small <br />Stationer’s, three pounds a month. It didn’t suit him. <br />It was not decent pay at all. <br />He refused it without hesitation; <br />He was twenty-five, and of good education. <br /> <br />Two or three shillings he made, more or less. <br />From cards and backgammon what could a boy skim; <br />At the common places, the cafés of his grade, <br />Although he played sharply, and picked stupid players. <br />As for borrowing, that didn’t always come off. <br />He seldom struck a dollar, oftener he’d fall <br />To half, and sometimes as low as a shilling. <br /> <br />Sometimes, when he got away from the grim <br />Night-sitting, for a week at a time or more, <br />He would cool himself at the baths, with a morning swim. <br /> <br />The shabbiness of his clothes was tragical. <br />He always wore the same suit, always displayed <br />A suit of cinnamon brown discoloured and frayed. <br /> <br />O summer days of nineteen hundred and eight, I recall <br />The picture of you, and out of it seems to fade, <br />Harmoniously, that cinnamon suit discoloured and frayed. <br /> <br />The picture of you has preserved him <br />Just as he would take off, would fling down <br />The unworthy clothes, the mended under clothes, <br />And remain all naked; faultlessly beautiful; a wonder. <br />Uncombed and lifted up his hair was; <br />His limbs a little sunburnt <br />From the morning nakedness at the baths and on the beach.<br /><br />Constantine P. Cavafy<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/days-of-1908/
