Searching for the man
at Planter's Peanuts
who, when they were kids,
shook hands with them
his costume
like a straw balloon
around his torso.
This new man
isn't the same:
not tall enough,
and look how that skinny suit
fits him.
Even his jet black arm
shoots out too quickly:
a boat caught in the marsh,
its oars for rudders.
Peanut shells
tossed into water
drift off slowly, floating.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
You've certainly got talent. Original subject matter, and an original take on that subject matter. Human without being maudlin. You seem to have read a lot of poetry and learned how to write.