the demise of the local scribe,
the written word,
that slaps
onto your porch, a baton,
of hard
written news,
by professional
journalists, sitting with
coffee and cigarettes,
bent over their
machines,
typing
before the last edition rolls
off the press.
it's a thin
rag now,
a blather of opinions
leaning
right or left,
no middle to speak of.
they're a day late
and a dollar
short with everything now.
just the wall street journal
and new york
times are left.
and those too are read
with heaping
spill
of salt.
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