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.