Wednesday, April 14, 2010

The paper boy who never grew up

Willy was a paper boy.
He started off at 13 years
so he could buy an Atari
and by the time he’d saved up
no-one had Ataris anymore but
he could escape in his room
and be somebody else.
He’s pushing 35 now
and his mum calls from her
threadbare chair,
up the stairs
“You won’t ‘ave any friends Willy.’
He wants to save up for a
Nintendo Wii
and make friends with people
so they can come round and
play tennis and
bowling and
baseball
like they do on the adverts.
But she’s right,
and it started at school when
he didn’t think to say
‘The name’s Bill’ or
‘Will’ or
anything,
and he didn’t understand why
they were calling him Dick all the time,
he just did not understand.
He’s still delivering papers,
up early,
out before the sun,
and he trips the light confused
and he knows he could have more
but the truth is he is
frightened.
He keeps on delivering on,
his giant yellow bag
causing permanent slouching
and a series of pressure headaches
but he keeps on,
posting papers like,
like only he knows how.
At 7.34 every morning
he passes a girl,
every day,
every day for two years,
she must be
getting a regular bus or something
and she decided to smile at him today
and Willy,
he doesn't know he isn’t doing the right thing
and his mum will never get out of that chair now,
and he will never find those friends,
but Willy was never
told right from wrong.

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