People who did not exist were constantly
Running in and out of Karl Marx' house
If you read -- not his
books; no one
Can now read those heavy books whose ink
Has turned red over the years -- but the letters
His daughters wrote you can still see the traces
Of these nonexistent folk. They are unpredictable,
Turning up at the door with an egg or pretending
To be an old friend or a bill collector or even
An old friend seeking to collect a bill. I would like
To grab one by the arm and, holding him fast,
Demand to know how he and his like
Eluded the law which, back then,
Allowed only real people to enter private houses
Except at on bank holidays and after midnight
On St. John's Eve and Boxing Day.
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