Times

Early every morning, rain, snow or warm sun, the New York Times is delivered to my driveway. Early every morning, I toddle out to get it. I read less of it now than once. The news is terrible and my attention span short. And, lately, the paper might not hit the driveway until late morning. I see ads for local delivery drivers, a demanding job. The hours are harsh, the pay’s not great. One day, when it’s not cold out, I’ll sit on the front steps and wave to the driver … offer a kind word and maybe a cuppa coffee.