Paper Route
Sundays, too, my mother,
Weary-eyed woke
Before the sun’s thin rise
Over the icy plain
To start the furnace
And warm the oven,
Baking stones
In that silent house
She would wrap them gently
In faded tea towels -
As I struggled into separate socks -
And nestle them under the flap
Of my newsboy’s canvas bag
Under the crisp moon,
Cutting through the canyoned sidewalks
Moving house to house
Through rising hills of white,
I would plunge my frigid hands
Into their nested warmth,
Unwrapping these messages of love.
