I DREAMED I WAS ON my bike, delivering the last paper
to the final porch and I tossed that rag at least a mile-
last dream of a democratic press-and the end of papers
fell like a snowflake onto the faded wood planks
of my old man’s porch, and he came out in slippers,
picked it up, slipped off the rubber band-and the thing
exploded with fresh despairs: new Vietnams and
Watergates, Mansons and Patty Hearsts, not to mention
Andy Capp and Hi and Lois, horoscopes, a Crossword puzzle,
box scores-even the obit of my poor mother. And
my old man told me not to cry, that even good things die,
son, and he folded that paper back up and tucked
the only good thing I ever did under his arm, easing back
into the warm house of my dead childhood to take
his morning shit.