Today’s Poem

Distribution

The newspaper boy. His skeem

that got this going. Our papers

disappeared every morning,

not long after they landed in the bush,

teetering on the lawn chair, or top

of my sedan. This is seven a.m.

Weeks later our mail started to turn

up missing. The box in the door—

gone. Then the starts to the next

house in the street. Still, on the last

day of the month he presents his bill.

He rings the bell. The milkman.

His skeem to smother the boy

in his own news ink.  

 -Jason Braun