Whiskers massed several inches below his unwashed chin,
Lank hair hung dark on worn, ageing face, quite thin;
White wardrobe had malfunctioned some years ago
But he drifted around the piazza, diffident, quite slow...
His two carrier bags were not actually carried
But hung from a lugged contraption I spied as he tarried;
It was a rusted market stallholder's rail on wheels,
Which followed him closely, snapping at his heels...
He hovered and talked to himself for worrying moments,
With a confused aura and shabby, pale garments;
But does my cynicism make me the prime offender?
For I named this figure Florence's Prime Contender...
Elderly guy in Florence.
A Contender is an unusual character...