When I’m away, I hang a bag
Or two from
my front door.
The guy who
brings the morning paper
Knows just
what it’s for.
He neatly
folds The New York Times
And places
it inside,
Where it
will stay and wait until
My home’s reoccupied.
Today, nine
papers filled the bag
And that’s
exactly right.
Tomorrow I’ll
start reading them,
In order,
and I might
Get through
at least a couple
(And the
crossword puzzles, too)
For,
although I know the basic news,
With much, I’m
overdue.
I love to
read the paper
And in print’s
the only way,
So I’m
grateful that where I reside,
I’ll never
miss a day.
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