What a site
Edward G. Robinson
Carries two tobacco bags
Cards held tight to his chest
A Cincinnati kid
Is he too gambler?
Maybe not; a writer
Lost to alcohol, an Agee?
Matador like Ernest; Hemingway
Out of sight, is Poe, the Allan?
He's thinking, worrying.
In his hand has a cane.
Is he sick, drinking?
Sure not now
Truly, really
Deep in chair and silent
Magnifiers on his eyes
His shoes are carpet-like
Inside them two pillows
Both are feet, he is sick
Sits and waits; clinic.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem