paper boy

when you were a paper
boy, you saw the news
first, before most others.
you'd cut the metal
ribbon holding the bundle
together, in the dark
of morning and stare
at the front page
as the snow fell, or
the rain, or the wind
seeped into your jacket.
you can still smell
the ink and crisp
paper straight from
the presses, rolled
to you on trucks
driven by gruff cigar
smoking men, who
waved with stained
fingers, coughing,
as they watched you
in their rear view
mirrors, having been
there too.