It is true, fellow citizens, That my old docket lying there for years On a shelf above my head and over The seat of justice, I say it is true That docket had an iron rim Which gashed my baldness when it fell— (Somehow I think it was shaken loose By the heave of the air all over town When the gasoline tank at the canning works Blew up and burned Butch Weldy)— But let us argue points in order, And reason the whole case carefully: First I concede my head was cut, But second the frightful thing was this: The leaves of the docket shot and showered Around me like a deck of cards In the hands of a sleight of hand performer. And up to the end I saw those leaves Till I said at last, “Those are not leaves, Why, can’t you see they are days and days And the days and days of seventy years? And why do you torture me with leaves And the little entries on them? Willard Fluke My wife lost her health, And dwindled until she weighed scarce ninety pounds. Then that woman, whom the men Styled Cleopatra, came along. And we—we married ones All broke our vows, myself among the rest. Years passed and one by one Death claimed them all in some hideous form And I was borne along by dreams Of God’s particular grace for me, And I began to write, write, write, reams on reams Of the second coming of Christ. Then Christ came to me and said, “Go into the church and stand before the congregation And confess your sin.” But just as I stood up and began to speak I saw my little girl, who was sitting in the front seat— My little girl who was born blind! After that, all is blackness. Aner Clute Over and over they used to ask me, While buying the wine or the beer, In Peoria first, and later in Chicago, Denver, Frisco, New York, wherever I lived How I happened to lead the life, And what was the start of it. Well, I told them a silk dress, And a promise of marriage from a rich man— (It was Lucius Atherton). But that was not really it at all. Suppose a boy steals an apple From the tray at the grocery store, And they all begin to call him a thief, The editor, minister, judge, and all the people— “A thief,” “a thief,” “a thief,” wherever he goes And he can’t get work, and he can’t get bread Without stealing it, why the boy will steal. It’s the way the people regard the theft of the apple That makes the boy what he is. Lucius Atherton