Rye Road Sunday Morning

Returning in party mood at 4 am, I see lights
in three of the ninety windows. A blue
hand-cart's parked on the snow. Door buzzes
and our paper boy comes out.

'You're early,' I say-- he shrugs:
'Sundays I do extra rounds. Weekend's ruined
anyway. Might as well make money.'

I walk up the stairs he just rushed down, find
mine tossed on the landing. Peace Prize money
invested in weapons, a man admits to killing
his wife. Weekend's ruined anyway, he said,
and the headlines don't help.