I came across the Donald Hall poem in question in an issue of the New Republic sometime this past late winter or early spring. I don’t remember many specific lines, but the person in the poem was describing a single, depressing day of his life from the time he gets up in the morning to when he goes to bed a night. I hope this is enough for someone to go on.
I’ve searched EBSCOHost for “donald hall” in New Republic and the only citation I find is for an article by William H. Pritchard from the 2/14/1994 issue. It is a review of two of Hall’s books, Museum of Clear Ideas and Life Work. If this sounds like it could even possibly be right, I can post some sample lines and we can try to narrow it down from there.
Thanks, KneadToKnow, but the poem wasn’t part of another article, but simply published as a “stand-alone” poem in the magazine. I sincerely appreciate your effort, but I came up with the same article as part of a search at the New Republic web site. I know my description of the poem was hopelessly vauge. Thanks!