The Groucho Marx stares on,
feet rooted in a dud gold name plate.
Flanked by a sunsplash coffee tin,
he ponders his shade.
Feet-rooting, the dud gold name plate
gives a dull clap when flicked
He ponders. His shades
of stone, charcoal, iron, fix
with a dull clap and flick
of the fingers, his fate,
in stone, charcoal, iron; fix
his era; cement the date,
finger his fate
as a black and white resin statuette.
His era, cemented. The date
suits him, welcomes him, and yet,
A black and white resin statuette?
Flanked by a sunsplash coffee tin,
suited, welcomed, set,
The Groucho Marx stares on.
