His family, a gang of dishwashers
come to make their fortunes from the harshest
fields of Hungary so many years ago. His kin
kept clean hands and a tight ship and
not so many amenities, save for liquors
to burn out the bits that made one
Socially acceptable on Friday Nights.

He hardly knew a day of rest and slept,
for the most part, atop a stack of rags
collected from his travels through the city.
His teeth were yellow and his hair near black
and the scars across his cheek and arms
made obvious his penchant for knife-fighting.

But he was a Gentle Man overall, with a
quick wit about him and a too-soft smile
that could send a gal to fainting. And though
his hair was only cut so often, he kept
the toes of his boots clean, and the hems
of his cloths were never in much disrepair.

His repute was not so bad and not ill-founded
and not so existant, save for the weekly
game of cards he’d been known to take to
with his brother-in-law. He never won too much,
but he never bet too much either, and so
was not to be scolded when he found his way
to buying another bottle.

When last I saw him he was still a Dishwasher’s
Son, but his head was held high, and though
he never said it, he was proud a man as
any I’d ever knew.