The mighty Chicago Tribune got hit last night.
Well, its newspaper box did,
only one picked from a sidewalk-consuming
row of four corner mainstays
to suffer that indignity of toppling.
I found it this morning, blue-
and-white face down, fifty feet further on, and
eating pushed-up daisies from
the commuter rail's prairie-grass embankment.
It couldn't tell me those dead-man
tales of daily mischief's end, but graffito-
tagged its side did sigh, "Someone
feels my news ain't got the values it used to."
This poem is based on a true story, but I didn't bother to change the name as there is no innocent.