Paper Man
You wear the Stygian pallor of a Blake
chimneysweep. Foggy headlights
under a head of dishevelled thatch keenly
watch for a raised arm, a beckoning look, a
a handful of coins proffered out the window;
regular customers exchange pleasantries. You
hold yesterday’s news under your arm as we
catch today’s news in our cars. Now we read your
papers on our phones and yet, you stand as you
have done for over thirty years; more than a
paper man – a tyre changer, a vigilant sentry for
children and old people on a busy road; your
seller’s call as anachronistic as the town crier. Hold
fast, kind paper man, as you battle the death rattle of
newsprint; a resounding obituary to
yesterday.
