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This poem is taken from PN Review 101, Volume 21 Number 3, January - February 1995.

Four Poems Robert Rehder

The Hat
Every time Harold Bloom looks under
His bed, he finds Emerson, Whitman

And Nietzsche and Stevens,
And most nights, Shelley and Keats -

And Emerson. He keeps finding Emerson
Who gets lost more than the others.

What are all these guys doing under
Harold's bed? Ralph, why don't you go home?

Would you call Ralph's mother, please,
And tell her, he's over here.

Now if that isn't enough,
Look, there's another banana.

Where do they come from,
I mean, 'an inescapable late capitalist social order'?

The fruit cakes have got out again.
Houdini wouldn't look at it.

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