The End of Journalism

poem

Photo by Ashni on Unsplash

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The elderly man who lived
across the street has died
and the daily newspapers
are piling up at his door.

No siblings, no wife, no kids,
he was solitary and kind—
the best kind of neighbor—
his silence was his rapport.

But it’s hard to reminisce 
about a man I can’t define.
What were his joys and labors?
What did he love and abhor?

I knew him for decades
but didn’t know his mind
or soul. I was a stranger
to a human who I saw five

or six times every week.
So it feels like a venial sin
when I drop his last news-
papers into our recycling bin.