Coffee long gone, cup dry-stained, and
Frost etching across these thin-paned portals,
We hear voices, poems clearly ascribed across years.
Three o’clock high, and pain crushes his spirit,
fragile bones dropping him to boyhood lost, and found.
Will the sun bring new day or old?
We pray for those outside, for those alone.
We grab onto those in pain, and those in prisons,
self-made and new-found.
(c) Tom Bolton, 20 January 2013, Milwaukee