When Wally asks me to punch him in the stomach, I try not to hold back. I let it rip. I set my feet like he taught me to, draw back my fist, and deliver a blow to the spot he's pointing at—right ... [+]
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