For Milton

Yesterday I attended the funeral of a friend who lived a difficult and often painful life, yet always got the most happiness he could out of what little he had. There's a lot I would like to say about Milton, but I'm not ready to do it. For now, this poem is for him and all the other poor black men in New Orleans who die from "natural causes" at ages like 49 simply because nobody in a position to help gives a fuck about them. It happens all the goddamn time.


Missing Dates

by William Empson

Slowl...