there are no more
paper boys
with a wagon and dog
tagging along. no
inked stained hands
anymore.
no bundled kid
at 5 a.m.
tossing the paper
baton towards
your porch,
into your yard.
no kid at the door
collecting for the Post
as the sun goes
down.
hoping for that Christmas
tip,
that bag of
warm cookies,
that pat on the head,
saying thanks.
it's a man and his wife now
in a station wagon
throwing
the thin wrapped
news from a window.
stale news at that.
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