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Saturday nights the boy brought Sunday's Post.
Watching “The Hit Parade”, we'd hear his cart,
its old wheels rattling down the icy street,
and soon his nasal voice would ring, “Baaay-perrr! ”
I'd look at Dad. He'd hand me the two quarters.
Opening the front door, I’d see the boy,
tiny in the streetlight’s wide corona,
and slip and slide my way to where he was,
out in the middle of the empty street.
Placing the warm coins in his gloved palm,
I'd cradle the sheaf he gave me like a baby,
folded with Blondie and Dagwood right on top.
It momentarily brought our house alive,
the newsprint perfume filling up the den
as dad gave sections out, rewarding me
for going, with the funnies and PARADE,
but the excitement never would last long.
In truth, our guest did not have not much to say,
its bright folds filled with empty promises.
Soon it lay like a discarded lover
on sofas and chairs, and we, ourselves again,
began the evening's final ritual:
turning lights off, climbing the stairs to bed.
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