When I was young
Growing up in Iowa
I delivered newspapers
Every damn morning.

Dark mornings,
Cold mornings,
Wet mornings,
Protecting Democracy, my father called it.

Sometimes….now that I am old
I have a dream
About a paperboy
Whose bag is full.

It’s a beautiful winter morning
And The Paperboy crunches through the snow
Admiring the rising sun
Breaking through the cold clear sky.

Now the wind rises
And the snow swirls
And The Paperboy’s orientation is lost and
The newspapers are gone.

He passes the home of his Sunday School teacher,
Who thought he should go to seminary some day.
He passes the home of his English teacher,
Who thought he’d write a book some day.
He passes the home of this best friend,
Who’s mom thought he’d be president some day.
The newspapers are gone
But the bag is once again full.

The paperboy emerges from the drifting snow
Into the choking hot hog barn.
Late July is county fair time
And the show-hogs are pleased with themselves.

The champion— fat sumptious and wallowing;
Unaware that soon he’ll soon be on a plate
In another state
And no one there will know that he was the Champion.

The paperboy stumbles out of the barn,
Into the blazing heat
Aware of the obligation still in his bag.
Undelivered.