Ted Littleford
The paper has been delivered
In a plastic sleeve to the front door
I hold the end of it and empty the sections
I enjoy how they flutter to the floor
Pandemic, urban chaos, the worst sort of blues
It makes sense to begin the day disinfecting the news
Even style and real estate that I find most bland
I read none of them without washing my hands
But I haven’t bent down yet or applied a touch
To what is increasingly much too much
No, I take a peak, a surreptitious glance and I haven’t knelt down
I fear I’ll get stuck there, prostrate on the ground
It’s a game I play with myself and the paper
I scan you, I nod to you, I’ll read you later
The statistics, the memorials, how the troops were deployed
On the back and neck of George Perry Floyd
So I straddle the sections, I’m the colossus of my Times
If I limit to the aerial view, the day might still be mine.
