So early it’s still almost dark out. I’m near the window with coffee, and the usual early morning stuff that passes for thought. When I see the boy and his friend walking up the road to deliver the newspaper. They wear caps and sweaters, and one boy has a bag over his shoulder. They are so happy they aren’t saying anything, these boys. I think if they could, they would take each other’s arm. It’s early in the morning, and they are doing this thing together. They come on, slowly. The sky is taking on light, though the moon still hangs pale over the water. Such beauty that for a minute death and ambition, even love, doesn’t enter into this. Happiness. It comes on unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really, any early morning talk about it.
He slept on his hands. On a rock. On his feet. On someone else's feet. He slept on buses, trains, in airplanes. Slept on duty. Slept beside the road. Slept on a sack of apples. He slept in a pay toilet. In a hayloft. In the Super Dome. Slept in a Jaguar, and in the back of a pickup. Slept in theaters. In jail. On boats. He slept in line shacks and, once, in a castle. Slept in the rain. In blistering sun he slept. On horseback. He slept in chairs, churches, in fancy hotels. He slept under strange roofs all his life. Now he sleeps under the earth. Sleeps on and on. Like an old king.