the Sundays, the long
Sundays
with the newspaper
are gone.
no more
lingering with coffee
in the morning
light
turning page after page,
the news
and sports,
book reviews.
the ink on my fingers,
the smell
of fresh print,
saving
sections for later that
night.
no longer do i chase
down
the baton
thrown into the shrubs
as i go
out in my robe.
i just scroll now
to read about the world.
i scroll
and scroll.
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