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.