Generations - Poem by Richard Lord
Trotsky, in a MacDougall St. coffehouse,
Appears tired, annoyed, gets irritable,
Leaves his game with old Josef Hurvitz
After only thirteen moves
And returns to his room
On the other end of the Village.
Less tired now, though colder,
He sits down to write a letter
To the editors of the New York Times,
Explaining the true significance
Of the ongoing hostilities
Back there in Europe.
David Spielsky from down the hall
Helps him with his English,
And then they sing an old song
Over cheap wine.
After a meal and a nap,
He's back again to the shtetl district
Where he runs into Meyer Greenberg,
Third generation, who, freed from the family
Millinery shop, loves to come here
And sip on the warm exuberance
Of the old and young Russians.
“From Trier? From Trier?
Your people are really
From Trier? Then, my God,
Surely you're familiar with some
Of them works of Marx? ”
“No, ” replies Greenberg,
I'm afraid that I'm not.”
And slightly drunk, he recites to the first
Long, flowing sections from Hölderlin.
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