從近期 《New Yorker》 上摘了一首詩，勉強譯出。

             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 父子搬運公司

當搬運公司的人終於來了，運走那碩大的桌子，

我用手摸着它坑坑窪窪的邊緣，就好象摸着某個精疲力盡的馱馬，

忽然湧上一種莫名的傷感。我從來沒有喜歡過它，

因為它太簡陋，然後又太巨大，

對我們的生活方式來說（或者至少是應該有的那種方式）

六把椅子，綠色的絲絨已被坐平，還有兩把

帶雕刻扶手的，那扶手寬大得足以放下國王肌肉團團的手臂

（椅子們待在地下室里年復一年，沾滿灰塵）

更有另兩把帶葉子的以備不速之客，椅子上的漆還在閃光，桌面卻已經

暗淡無色，傷痕累累：就像不留情面的記憶的博物館長。

當那年輕人去取一張蒙家具的毯子，我彎下腰把面頰貼在涼涼的紅木上，

那父親馬不停蹄地干呀干，要把這活兒幹完，回家，可以像個國王，

做個手勢，等他老婆把肉切塊，把澆上奶油的豌豆端來。

（評論: 女的寫的）