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For you, Dad, I turn on the ballgame. // It doesn’t matter which game, exactly, / does it? // So familiar, the way you spent the long hours / of your freedom, soaking up the drama, huge / warrior men in combat, lifting themselves / out of the mud
By Lou LipsitzAugust 1998When I was 4 years old they put me in the hospital / to remove my tonsils and adenoids. / The night after they operated / I could not sleep so I got up // and I wandered down the huge corridor, / nobody in sight, and I came to 2 big doors / so I went through them and that is when / I first heard the sound of real pain
By Red HawkAugust 1998And we’re still staggering like oxen laden / with too many wine barrels: what to do with all this time? // We were little more than plants or animals ourselves, / scratching in the dirt like chickens. Find, eat, find, eat.
By Anne Giles RimbeyAugust 1998Personal, political, provocative writing delivered to your doorstep every month—without a single ad.
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