'Express and Star! '
He calls unto the shoppers passing by,
Peering from his wooden hut
That dwells beside the bank.

The headlines trapped behind the gauze
Lie rippled by the damp,
The ink does run like fading tears
The town does gently weep.

So many years he's been there
A familiar face to all,
Yet carries on within
The fading twilight of his life.

His face is almost hidden
By a woollen hat and scarf,
As he wipes away the raindrops
From the spectacles he wears.

He looks unto the slated skies
Then mutters to himself,
And watches people heading home
And yet he has to stay.

Behind the pile of papers
Stacked upon the counter there,
Beneath a smooth and heavy stone
He uses as a weight.

As still the bitter wind does blow
That offers no remorse,
He calls again with all his strength
Into the evening air.

'Express and Star! '
Yet no one stops to buy one from his stall,
A street of blank expressions 'neath
The vast umbrella crowd.

Confined within that wooden hut
From which there's no escape,
He stamps his feet to keep them warm
Then rubs his weary hands.

The pigeons keep him company
Or else he'd be alone,
To stare into the darkness
Till the shutter does come down.

ANDREW BLAKEMORE

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-newspaper-seller/