newspaper

when I call from my window

to the low street,

rippling with wet snow

and necessity

a zing

he stops in the dark, tosses the plastic

package

the story has arrived, the boy who brought it to

my door is here, open

I don’t move if I can help it

not to pull my nose or touch my hair

I want this visit, unwarranted, uncounted

the place they can’t put their finger

under the cold blanket of night

But I see reporters

in flaccid

florescent offices

nothing like Rosalind Russell. Although

the thing she called production for use

is the same.

If he sees me here?

behind the glass and the glare,

forever borrowing a moment

fuck the clock, I am unrepentant

yet nobody's been paid

for this work

Come on, boy of stories,

bringer of messages

envoy of industry, harbinger of ink,

fool, herald, witness, carrier

his bike slides forward

we are trying to read minds

but something slips

off the tracks

If it was murder

it didn’t look like one

when I put my body in front of your body

and said

I know this man.