Bye Newspaper

The presses hum like an old harmonica in a locked-up room,
Breathing out weather no longer in the sky.

Pages drift down alleys, pale as winter doves,
Their wings trimmed neat by careful hands.

In the attic of town, the windows face one way,
Curtains stitched thick with yesterday’s law.

Watchmen polish the mirrors till nothing looks strange,
While outside, wires sing through the sleepless dark.

A thousand small lanterns float down the river at night—
bye newspaper, the wind has found a wider road.