Body Bag

My New York Times arrives each morning in a blue body bag
Announcing deaths,births,declines,failings,newness and oldness.
The news is still warm as I retrieve the parcel
Tossed out of a passing geriatric car at about sunrise.
I pull it into my life and slide its folded winged form
Out of the cold blue plastic sleeve
Knowing that what I see will not be news
To celebrate the dawn of a new day,
But mostly a darkening of my spirit
As the angel of death
Flutters above people and ruins.