Richard Sanger

Paper Boy


To the family home’s warm flannel and snow
Spilling cold from my windowsill, I woke—
To work, to the pre-dawn January dark
And the dark felt liners of boots
I planted on fresh snow-paved sidewalks,
To trek trudging to the bundle my numb digits
Struggled to untie and then deliver,
Block after block, to each sleeping house,
Bringing the Glebe the Globe, its sorrows and joys
Through the slowly brightening streets,
And the names of all the places the news came from,
Places I would, years later, go and call home
And, one nameless morning, in some great café,
Think of the day I might return,
Arriving with a thud on the untrodden porch,
In words, in print, in the paper I had still to read.




from Calling Home

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