A Tuesday morning's newspaper,
sleeved in green plastic and errant
on the neighbor's porch roof,
soaks up the August rays
out of reach of stretched arms.
My fifty cents grows stale up there,
pulp baking to a yellow-paged
headline that might bump into

history above the fold. Today's
news could be tomorrow's game show.
With no finger on score and scandal
I am out of touch, uncertain sure questions
are being answered. The rest of the day I'll spend
like a man lacking pockets, unsure of his hands.

-- Fred Shaw