Monday Morning

He flings the paper from the end of the walkway
with a a single movement the way he once
threw a discus. It lands in the grass. I put on a hat
to cover my sleep tossed hair and walk outside.
A sweatshirt, baggy pants and sandals
make me presentable for another neighbor
retrieving a paper. We nod. It's too early
to discuss the fate of the world or whether
the new crossword editor has resorted
to arcane words and convoluted play on words.
I glance at the front page and note that
later I'll read about bike couriers making a comeback.

It's a good morning.

Poetic Asides prompt