the paperboy
twelve years old
my old man had me out
before five in the morning
toting stacks and bundles
of all of the hell the world had to offer
he’d sit in the car
listening to news radio
while i walked dark streets
slinging papers on pavement
or hard against the doors of those customers
who were never around
when i came to collect
scared of the dark and the rustling trees
dogs barking or a random deer
trotting across a suburban lawn
scared of everything five in the morning had to offer me
passing the homes of kids i went to school with
dark mansions that looked like
they’d been closed-up for years
dodging ice in the winter
dodging sprinklers in the summer
in the mix of every season that bloomed
occasionally a random person would come
walking down a block
i’d hide where i could
watching as they moved off into the distance
wondering why in the hell
they were up so early like me
to make the almighty dollar?
but i always imagined something more sinister in mind
as i moved from house to house like a careful creep
suddenly aware of all of that slumbering vulnerability
behind those doors and windows
the turn of a knob
the touch of a dusty screen
at times emboldened by my power
as my old man drove the car blocks ahead
reliving the job of his youth through me
the trail of his gray cigarette smoke
more pronounced as the red sun began to come up
and the lights flickered on
in all of the homes
i’d sacrificed sleep
to inform.
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