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.