before the sun

as a boy, you rose
before the sun, took the old
dog, the wagon
down three blocks
to the corner where you
cut the ties
of the bundles,
the newsprint hardly
dry. you bended each
into a baton, slipping
them inside a plastic
bag, then pulled
the wagon along your
route, tossing each
to a porch whose numbers
you had memorized.
sometimes you missed,
sometimes they landed
crisp and centered
so that one only had
to open a door
and bend to find
out what the world
had been up to.
at home, the wagon pushed
into the shrubs,
the dog back inside,
you stood at the kitchen
sink and soaped your
hands, watching
the black ink swirl
into the drain,
clean before
the school bus arrived.