Morning Paper

Feb 21 2016

It arrived like clockwork.

Dropped-off at dawn,

then folded, locked

and expertly tossed

onto lawns cool with dew

at blank front doors.

Or lost in the shrubbery

wind-caught

rained upon.

Day-old news,

appearing on my porch

like a familiar nod

of reassurance.

That the world went on.

That calamity

was the lot of others

far away.

That nothing ever happens here

in the humdrum calm

of this settled street

tsk-tsk’ing sympathetically;

shades drawn, doors locked

sleeping dogs lie.

Except for natural disasters

and Moon Landing

it spoke in a low voice,

no megaphone headlines

plain black print.

The cheap ink smudged,

a forensic trail

of fingerprints.

And its flimsy pages were tissue-thin,

butter-stained, toast-crumbed.

But along with hot coffee and ticking clocks

it was our morning rite,

before off-to-school

the workday slog.

And the paperboy, up by dawn,

who was our lifeline

to the world outside.

To birth and death

and newlywed.

To war and peace

and what was said.

To big event

and consequence. 

But most of all

to home-team triumphs

grocery flyers

the classifieds.

And in the end

bird-cage liners

starting fires

marking time.

Cheap pulp

that isn’t meant to last.

History’s first draft,

in random piles

yellowing on the back porch.

I’ve read the same morning paper for too many years to mention. I feel vaguely guilty about this, despite my dedicated attachment to this comforting ritual.

The daily paper seems like an act of responsible good citizenship:  keeping up-to-date, cultivating informed opinions.

On the other hand, newspapers – padded out with quirky side bars and human interest and “news you can use” – have the breathless urgency of the “now”, without the perspective and analysis of the long view – at least they did in the pre-internet days, before the daily paper had to re-invent itself as a more thoughtful observer.

And how important, really, is being in the know, keeping informed?  I may have impressive knowledge and insightful opinions, but if all I do is sit and pontificate instead of taking action, what’s the point? How virtuous, really, am I?

I think this ambivalence is here in the contrast between “big event and consequence” and what we secretly value in a newspaper – the sports scores and flyers and classified ads. And in its ignominious end:  lining a bird-cage, yellowing on the back porch.

I guess this is another of my nostalgia poems. Because physical newspapers – on actual paper, home-delivered, before there was even colour – are quickly becoming an anachronism.  They will soon be something only the old remember, and the young only see in movies:  as exotic as newsreels and typewriters and big black telephones heavy as bricks.