Paperboy 1st April 1977
Here in this alarm-met half-lit hour
things still bide from other April Fools’ days
Do not forget failing spaghetti trees
on foolish reportage loops
Again those soft nudges on slow senses
of soote aromas off flowering bulbs
there drilled – then paraded by retirees
My sucking lungs hauled their scents
and cool air’s apparent emptiness
on my delivery round’s steep ascents
with a bag weighted by broadsheets
Even worse on Thursdays
Another run of The Surrey Herald
Thick – but relevant – before the internet
Impossible to fold in these gloves
Here at this tall window
slid up an inch or two
my increase in rigidity
dictates today’s route
Those sash counterweights
are strung through my arms
Still close – my childhood
of heaves and pumps of pedals
in that slog across Chertsey’s
seven low hills every morning
No more kneaded by a canvas strap
but instead rubbed by an illness
as I deliver my night-laid lines
Here at this window –
on this hill – in my hand
is my latest paper round
of rhyme-sour edits
with old ascents still considered