seventy-nine papers to deliver

despite

the darkness of those early

mornings

in the snow,

in the cold

of February,

the sun a pink flower

still

rising,

there was no fear,

in pulling

the wagon

of bundled papers

through

the streets of Glassmanor,

up the hills

of Deale Terrace,

down Audrey

Lane,

and Winthrop street,

down

Dorchester

and back home.

i was the only one awake

in the whole

world

i imagined.

the dog patiently

walking

with me,

waiting at each gate.