Homeless club kids
living on rice, beans
and Gitanes.
All day he forces them
to strip
paint,
sand hutches
and stain armoires
to the music of Billie Holiday.
Outdoors, under a tarp
even in rain.
All this they gladly do
without complaint
for how else
will the owner
know whose love
of antiques is true
and who's a fake —
which urchin
to take
to his ancient
mahogany sleigh bed
and which to make
curl up in
the Morris chair.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem