In mu room, on the whitewashed wall Hangs a short bamboo stick bound with cord With an iron hook designed To snag fishing-nets from the water. The stick Came from a second-hand store downtown. My son Gave it to me for my birthday. It is worn. In salt water the hook's rust has eaten through the binding. These traces of use and of work Lend great dignity to the stick. I Like to think that this fishing-tackle Was left behind by those Japanese fishermen Whom they have now driven from the West Coast into camps As suspect aliens; that it came into my hands To keep me in mind of so many Unsolved but not insoluble Questions of humanity.