It must be cold in the ground these winter mornings.
            The man who delivers the paper drives
            up our hill each dawn, and the news arrives
            with a slap on the stoop. Like feeding seals: slap, slap, slap. Or high fives.

I read what’s put before me:
            the mayor wants some schools in the city closed;
            an immigrant washed ashore wearing women’s clothes;
            science has discovered that the brain doesn’t know what it knows.