Raymond

Raymond 

The season brings the oldness of a year.

A light straining out from a coal morning. 

The radio wears a cardigan with news

of how much the coming months will cost.

How Christmas will be tight for many.

These mornings. They will not cease horror.

The twists in the bedsheets, a loss of faith in myself. 

I could find a poem that answers the constant prayer. 

The one with newspaper boys who are arm in arm. 

I should make her coffee. Tell myself to try again.