The whomp in the driveway announces the morning paper.
And so begins a daily ritual
seated deep in my psychic.
The paper is there as sure as the sun rise
that accompanies its arrival.
Coffee and paper start the day
rain or shine.
Never much worth reading
but it must be done
either with the pleasure of habit
or grudgingly from necessity.
I give too little thought
to how the paper got there.
If I stop to remember,
I can testify.
I was 13 and the alarm
went off every morning at 5:00 AM
and it was always cold.
Up too early to eat much breakfast,
I walked the 2 miles to the station
and waited for the bus from Denver.
Was it always late?
Waiting the carriers
played crazy tag games
to pass the time.
Bundles of papers tied
with rope were tossed off the bus
and we counted out ours.
In the days before rubber bands,
papers had to be folded just so for throwing.
The front of the paper carrier's bag was filled
leaving a smaller load for the back.
Better to walk pulled forward than back,
besides the load would soon lessen.
I walked 3 miles to the beginning of the route
and started tossing.
Instructions to carriers were clear:
Avoid a throw in the bushes
or on the roof.
Find a dry spot
or put it on the porch.
Put the paper where the customer wants it
and avoid all complaints.
The solitude gave me license to
play fantasy mind games
and ignore the squeak
of overshoes on the snow.
Then I could forget
the below freezing temperature.
I walked back to school
in time for the first bell
and dozed in mathematics class.
"Douglas seems to understand the work
but he doesn't seem alert".
Seven days a week
and collect on Saturday,
if you could.
The Rocky Mountain News
got delivered.
Sometimes I got paid.
I felt like a man.
Work defined worth and I worked.
But you need not chisel
on my marble
".. and he carried papers '
when he was young."