He gestures ostentatiously.  “Come sit.”
He doesn't have a title, but he's learned
That class's ticks:  a fine, straw hat,
Seersucker suit, a box of Turkish
Cigarettes, one lit, half finished, in
An ashtray, and a glass of limoncello,
Iced and sweating, by his hand.  “What
Can I have the waiter bring you, cara mia?”
You just shrug.  “I'll have a limoncello, too.”
You've been in this play almost daily since
You were about thirteen.  Its title could be
“An Exchange.”  A plump old guy will
Offer something, food or liquor, opera
Tickets, hoping that he'll be paid back,
With interest, in bed.