To Harpo Marx
O Harpo! When did you seem like an angel
the last time?
and played the gray harp of gold?
When did you steal the silverware
and bug-spray the guests?
When did your brother find rain
in your sunny courtyard?
When did you chase your last blonde
across the Millionairesses' lawn
with a bait hook on a line
protruding from your bicycle?
Or when last you powderpuffed
your white flour face
with fishbarrel cover?
Harpo! Who was that Lion
I saw you with?
How did you treat the midget
and Konk the Giant?
Harpo, in your recent nightclub appearance
in New Orleans were you old?
Were you still chiding with your horn
in the cane at your golden belt?
Did you still emerge from your pockets
another Harpo, or screw on
new wrists?
Was your vow of silence an Indian Harp?
To Lindsay
(Vachel Lindsay, who used to read his poems from door to door, committed suicide in 1931)
Vachel, the stars are out
dusk has fallen on the Colorado road
a car crawls slowly across the plain
In the dim light the radio blares its jazz
the heartbroken salesman lights another cigarette
In another city 27 years ago
I see your shadow on the wall
You're sitting in your suspenders on the bed.
The shadow hand lifts up a pistol to your head
Your shade falls over on the floor
Paris, 1958
Made by Hand
Made by Hand if it's Made by Hand it's got to be good
That's what 14th Street always said
Made by Hand, silk labels would prove that
Street peddlers said Made by Hand, but they often lied
When I was a boy all the rich Italians wore Made by Hand
In fact they used to keep the back side of their ties out
so that all could see their Made by Hand signs
I even once sewed on a Made by Hand label
on a not Made by Hand tie, yes
And I also sewed a Cashmere Sweater label on a
itchy cotton sweater, and
-- Well, anyway, now that I know better it doesn't
make any difference
Because if I thought it did
I surely would have brought back from Europe lots
of crazy Made in Paris
Made in Rome labels
