Newspaper Man

The rain marches
in rows
drills through the street
He leaves the curtain

Good true newspapers
reach the ceiling
a water drop hits a bucket

This is a hidden war
but it is a war
miles of names
crowds flow by
like receipts in the streets

And the white curves
the chrome wings
reflect him - the newspaper man
in a sea of paisley
they pick his gaudy smile

Purgatory would figure him
a hundred feet tall
conducting with some stradivarius ragdoll
calling dawn
putting afternoons to rest
the rows of corn
dance to his baton
truth rains, a blessing

Hunger claws at him
A nickel pressed in his palm
The run of a world
figures on his face