Like Waiting for Santa

Where is the newspaper? The day begins. Candles are lit and, oh shit, out of incense. Oh well. Cold beer at my side. Broken foot somewhat on the mend. At least I can walk down the stairs now instead of doing the inverted crab crawl.
Being an insomniac can produce wiggly and isolated thoughts in the wee hours of the morning.
Where is the paper guy? It used to be a girl, but she was just as sneaky. They know when you are sleeping and know when you’re awake. They might even know if you’ve been bad or good – who knows for goodness sake?
It never fails. I think I have the delivery time figured out, but the paper is not on the stoop.
I go back inside and grab another beer or perhaps a nice hot tea. It is still dark out. I go back down the stairs in order to turn the porch light on, you know, just out of politeness.
Lo! The paper is there, all wrapped up nice and neat like a present.
A black cat crosses the street. I turn off the porch light, climb back up the stairs and plop mice elf on the sofa. The day begins. A nap is on the mind as I become informed about the inside of the outside world.
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