There's always hope

Every new year coal comes in the door
and luck walks out.
Luck is meant to stay

my grandmother swore
on the family bible that it would,
but some perverse bending
steers it away,
scuttling down a road
I've grown tired of walking.

I remember once, when luck went,
when my brother left home
to join some ragged crew
that believed flowers
really did grow up damp, peeling wallpaper
and that smoking pot cured all ills.

I wondered then, if there was a point
to the tradition,
to the carrying of coal,
when famine and festering were prevalent.

Hope always underscored
the last word.