The paper boy brought Sunday’s <u>Post</u> on Saturday night <br />as our family watched “The Hit Parade” inside. <br />We’d hear his cart rattling by on the icy pavement, <br />then his song, in his nasal voice: “Baaay-berrr! ” <br /> <br />Dad would give me two shiny quarters. <br />Opening the front door, I’d see him there, <br />small shadow in the streetlight’s wide corona. <br />Slipping and sliding out into the middle <br />of the deserted intersection, I’d make the exchange: <br />warm coins for the thick, cold sheaf of paper <br />folded with Blondie and Dagwood right on top. <br /> <br />Our house came alive with our colorful visitor’s entry, <br />its newsprint-ink perfume filling the den <br />as it started to share tales of the world outside. <br />Dad gave away the colors, distributing sections. <br />I waited for the funnies and PARADE. <br /> <br />But excitement did not last long. <br />In truth, our visitor had not much to tell us. <br />Its bright folds were filled with empty promise, <br />its rainbow colors enhanced commercial phantoms. <br /> <br />Soon it lay on the sofa like a discarded lover. <br />Ourselves again, we began the next family ritual: <br />turning off lights and getting ready for bed.<br /><br />Max Reif<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/saturday-night-rituals/
