Ink-operated joy,
Slid beneath my door with morning coy.
Folded tight like secrets kept by paperboys who never slept.
He never talks, he never cries,
He simply prints the daily lies.
He’s black-and-white and right on time,
His headlines hum, his font’s sublime.
Oh, analog addiction, sweet!
With crossword heart and obit beat—
no buffering, no screen’s harsh glow,
Just pulp that bleeds what I should know.
A nickel soul, a quarter spine,
He’s yesterday’s ghost in columned line.
I cradle him with coffee breath,
My rustling lover full of death.
He brings the war, the weather, stocks-
tied up in rubber bands like locks
On thought, on truth, on what’s not said,
Delivered to the semi-dead.
Oh ink boy, won’t you stay awhile?
Your scent of mold, your type-set smile-
machines don’t love, they only churn,
But you remind me how we burn.
No push alerts, no tap, no click-
just Sunday news in layers thick.
A love affair in grayscale tones,
A whispered doom through printed moans.
So I’ll take this joy, coin-operated,
Pre-folded, vaguely outdated-
because in his smudge, I see my face,
a relic longing for its place