I stare at the sky and all of its colors and shades, lights and darks, reds and yellows within its deep blue. The sun elongates the shadows created by my body and my black ‘77 Trans-Am parked on the ... [+]
And the poor have the sufferings to which they are fairly accustomed And each in the cell of himself is almost convinced of his freedom from In Memory of W. B. Yeats by W. H. Auden Wander the towns of America, and ask are you free? I asked this of a woman in the Dollar Tree parking lot which had been wilting under the sticky Cleveland heat for weeks. My head was a donut just out of the fryer. She barely looked my direction as she gathered small children set them right in the cart, tied a shoe, patted her purse. Her hair needed a wash. With a heave, she drove the cart, rusty and listing to