My Gentleman’s pocket-watch, ticks with the snaps of child-proof bottle caps. Settled against the inlay of his waistcoat, an inch below the level of fingers which balance Plato upon their very tips.
My Gentleman tilts the pages while he reads, catching fire-light in the glint of gold-leafed edges.
My Gentleman reads Plato by firelight. Or at least, my gentleman’s Shadow reads Plato by firelight. Lean charcoal fingers, hinged at the knuckle, angles cut with degree precision.
Perhaps my Gentleman is carved from oak. With acorns for eyes, bark for stubble and a broad leaf, plucked from a tree’s top branch, tucked inside the breast pocket. Only a fold of green to be seen.
My Oak gentleman’s Shadow reads Plato by fire-light, and swears that he would know his own cave.