从近期 《New Yorker》 上摘了一首诗，勉强译出。

             ESPOSITO & SON

When the men arrived, finally, to haul the big table away,

I ran my hand down the battered length of it, as if along

the flank of some exhausted workhorse, overcome

by a sudden rush of absurd remorse. I’d never loved it,

being as it was first too shabby, then too grand

for the way we lived (or should have lived, at least).

Six chairs, green velvet pressed flat, two more

with sculpted rests broad enough for a king’s muscled

forearm (growing dusty in the basement, season upon season)

Two carved leaves should unexpected guests drop by, and these

Still gleamed with polish though the tabletop itself was bleached

and scarred: ruthless curator of memory.

When the younger man went to fetch a blanker I bent

And laid my cheek flat against the cool mahogany.

The father shifted restlessly from foot to foot eager

to be done with it, to be home, perhaps, king at his own table.

gesturing for his wife to slice the meat, to pass the buttered peas.

                                                                  ---Anna Scotti

                  ESPOSITO 父子搬运公司

当搬运公司的人终于来了，运走那硕大的桌子，

我用手摸着它坑坑洼洼的边缘，就好象摸着某个精疲力尽的驮马，

忽然涌上一种莫名的伤感。我从来没有喜欢过它，

因为它太简陋，然后又太巨大，

对我们的生活方式来说（或者至少是应该有的那种方式）

六把椅子，绿色的丝绒已被坐平，还有两把

带雕刻扶手的，那扶手宽大得足以放下国王肌肉团团的手臂

（椅子们待在地下室里年复一年，沾满灰尘）

更有另两把带叶子的以备不速之客，椅子上的漆还在闪光，桌面却已经

暗淡无色，伤痕累累：就像不留情面的记忆的博物馆长。

当那年轻人去取一张蒙家具的毯子，我弯下腰把面颊贴在凉凉的红木上，

那父亲马不停蹄地干呀干，要把这活儿干完，回家，可以像个国王，

做个手势，等他老婆把肉切块，把浇上奶油的豌豆端来。

（评论: 女的写的）