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The paper boy

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  • The paper boy


    Pines shading tarpapered shacks
    Farms and ranch houses
    Practical and gauche in the open
    East to west, North and south
    Rolling roads without correspondence
    Like riding a flying dragon’s back
    Every season its own fragrance
    Gravel has a certain sound
    Different from pavement
    Bicycle tires and bare feet
    Blacktop and sticky bubbles that pop
    Upriver the city grows filthier
    Closer to home, mill furnaces stoked for their war
    The sound of freight cars coupling in the rail yard
    Hell of noise defused by the hills
    The whippoorwill, bobwhite and twilight
    And my middle name
    Washing faces of the past with sun and rain
    Maybe I remember
    For sure I am told
    Too many listening, stories folded into the fold
    Days of youth are ending fast
    You can read on a little bird’s thrust
    Tweeting our poverties and an amazing kingdom
    Closed out with the working man’s stain
    Soldiers knowing battle before kin
    They will never sleep in arms again
    But lay apart on windless dreams
    Only wanting calm for the grieving family
    Eyes have no color until their claimed
    Fathers upon sons collapse on the paste
    Doorstep mothers faint
    Nothing compares to wasting life
    Except delivering it
    Day after day
    To the lions that read
    Licking the host, lost or the damned
    Laying awake, years without movement
    And you?
    The Symbol of the trusting dove
    Never an acceptance or appearance
    Prying into the souls and their junkyard dogs
    Mirrors, glass and lives shattered by idle hands
    Boys drumming on rusted hoods
    Travelers soaked in holiday and picnic blood
    Examining every word stitched to the seats
    Transfixed on cleaning chemicals
    Fevers heating our internal flesh
    To release the moment unto the flock
    Bits and pieces of the unlucky
    Steering wheels grasped and turned
    Truth will always come driving home
    Sharing its sacred bowls
    Bliss and sorrow
    A romantic novel about to bloom
    The convicted page revisited
    The power in the turning of prudence
    Harsh sting, the unimportance of existence
    But prominence of headlines
    Read all about it
    Digestion, for what is our worth?
    Never black, never white
    Chalkboard propaganda rolled up
    Stuffed into wide-open eyes
    Getting on with feeding the wild fire
    While staying out of clear sight
    And the simple because of youth taking sides
    My grass is as green as yours
    Maybe not right now