Paperboy

He moves with burglars and police
in the hours of our deep sleep.
His hump-backed, pregnant silhouette
strides by dark houses
as streetlights push
his block-long shadow.
Sometimes he comes upon
a parked car containing
things a boy shouldn’t see.
Sometimes a sense of power
wells up within him
an adult omniscience
possessed by those who know
the secrets of the night.
His spinning flopshots
slap down on porches
as birds begin to chirp.
Dew is beaded on his shoes.
How fine and clean the world smells
when day is but a purple bruise
upon the brow of night.