What hunger stirs us in the dark
as we deliver newspapers on Sunday
and our sons sleep back home,
my wife across the street more Italian
each day in her roundness.
We walk with ghosts in the morning,
like Mr. Minghella, who waits in his bathrobe
for his weekend paper.
The moon in its language of bone
dissolves into a poem.
How we hang papers in the right places,
like batons balanced on hooks
for those hands to grasp them
in their long distance run.
Marriage sinks into those late years
of love, as her body accepts her age
and I deliver someone else’s newspaper—
and jam it into a mail slot.
The next house around the corner
I rattle the mailbox barely hanging
in its honest intentions
as our silence, that pickpocket,
leaves us ghostlike somehow
without ever dying.