Every Sunday morning, I peek through the front-door curtain to look for blue log.
If the paper is not on the porch, I curse, pull on my pants and prepare to drive to New York City,
If I have to, to find the Sunday Times on a newsstand.
Some weeks, there are bleak or nervous Tuesdays when I calm myself by promising,
"On Sunday, you'll be the old brown leather chair under the paper blanket."
(My late father's old brown leather chair, as a matter of fact.)
The New York Times is Sunday breakfast with everyone I know, living and dead,
Who might be interested in anything inside.
We pals and political enemies, we bosses and employees, we uncles, aunts and ancestors,
We sit around together, drinking coffee and chattering over the news,
Arguing over a screwdriver about the features and opinions,
Introducing the obits around. "Mom, meet Marion Barry!"
And then we all nap together beneath the paper blanket, before we tackle the magazine.