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A PLATE OF SPAGHETTI
These are the wide, incredulous eyes of Harpo Marx,
handed a plate which will soon be filled
with the tangled cordage of fresh spaghetti.
They speak of astonishment at such reversals
when the out-of-luck come into their own
and the least they can do is eat up.
The post-prandial concert is inevitable.
They are singing after supper their only song:
We have only our talent and our hunger to give you;
We are the century's displaced, the scuttling survivors
who seem to travel light but whose baggage
is weightier than any braced trunk deep in the hold.