Playing Paperboy

I did a free write of a childhood memory (to include in the “Summer Days” book). And then, thought this might fit into a villanelle since the event is repetitive. I am determined to figure out this form. I am hoping that the lines do not sound awkward. I was thinking about Chuck Rybak’s comments about meter and “feet”— I don’t know one foot from another, stressed or unstressed. I settled on counting and evening out syllables. (I’ve been tweaking this for a few weeks.)

Playing Paperboy

At three years old, I rule the morning street

I ride my red trike, old news in a stack.

I pedal up the driveway, pump my feet.

From my basket, grab a paper folded neat,

throw one on the porch, it lands with a smack.

At three years old, I rule the morning street.

Dad shoots a movie, tries to be discreet.

Play is my work, newspapers in the rack.

I pedal up the driveway, pump my feet.

I ride back down the sidewalk, then repeat,

toss more papers, turn around, come back.

At three years old, I rule the morning street.

Dad’s paperboy game is a memory sweet.

The news is old, and time can’t bring it back.

I pedal up the driveway, pump my feet.

Playing Dad’s movie makes my days complete.

An elder now, there’s nothing that I lack.

At three years old, I rule the morning street,

I pedal up the driveway, pump my feet.