6:17 AM

A small, hard thud against the porch,

the morning's signal, sharp and clean.

Mr. Henderson's paper, a burning torch

of routine, always on the scene.

6:17. The plastic-wrapped scroll.

He’s out there, shuffling, a small form

against the streetlamp's waning goal.

Then gone, back to his quiet storm.

I watch it sit, a neat, tight log.

Unread, for now. Just a sign.

Another day, another dog

will bark. But that sound, it's mine.