Daily Paper
Jan 7 2023
I am a charter member
of the quickly dwindling tribe
of newspaper readers.
The daily paper.
Each morning
a thud at the door;
a sound I find comforting,
letting me know
that at least some sort of order
has outlasted the night.
And the routine, of course.
The buzz of anticipation
sitting in my easy chair
sipping hot black coffee
paper in hand.
The pristine pages
crisply unfolding.
The distinctive smell
imparting its little buzz,
and ink-stained fingers
leaving their telltale marks.
An anachronism
in newsprint and ink
with news that's already old.
But that's a strength, not a weakness.
Something in my hands
with substance and weight,
instead of headlines
that will soon be replaced,
flashing pixels
in fugitive light.
As well as a necessary pause —
as if for 24 hours
events had been fixed,
the ever circling world
mercifully stopped.
No crawl or flashes
or pop-up distractions,
no breaking exclusives
or breathless news.
Plenty of time
to get lost in thought,
be touched
confirmed
surprised.
Yes, surprise,
because serendipity
is a big attraction;
quirky facts
and human interest stories,
maddening politicians
hard-hitting editorials.
Always something different,
and always more of the same.
Of course
there are also the piles of papers
mouldering by the door,
stale news
that's only good for compost
and bird cages.
Which is not just a squandered resource,
but a sobering reminder
of the all too rapid
passage of time.
And who has enough of that?
The ultimate luxury, time.
And old school readers
who set an hour aside
and make it sacrosanct.
Alas, my big city paper is no longer delivered here. So the poem is all nostalgia: now I read on my iPad. The same news, but without the heft and mess and sensation of the real thing. Delivery is on time and more reliable. It doesn’t get rained on or blow away. But still, it's not the same. No piles of old newsprint mouldering by the door, reminding me of stale news, as well as the all too rapid passage of time.
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