To the tattered Times on my tailored stained desk

We did not mean to greet you.

We came in like a shovel from the past on a cordial visit where Paris sweeps through vacations stakes on Olympian stairways like scattered furs covering the loins of Groucho Marx who did not sleep for three years five days and could not take a shower to pardon his brother for the makeup incident in the guest bathroom.

We did deliver on the doorstep the congratulatory misdemeanors and sanctioned International Criminal Court judges, all appeasing like apples on pear pages to the wasted outcomes of the funnies on a Friday newsdump where the leaves bother the vacancy test like marched outcomes on steel greens.

But I did not stay awake to tell you this. And I did not stay awake waiting for your delivery. I left you a decade ago and when I did, it was over, for certain, for good, just waiting for others to come around and slowly many more did. Now you might believe me when I tell you that your bathroom needs to be replaced and the food column should be on the front page. The food column should take up all the pages.

Steady and stern. Forward and marching the circumference of the cutout newspaper dolls.