The Book I Will Never Write.

sunshine.

and the money is gone
          and momma is worn down.
the closet is filled with umbrellas
             and frayed scarves
           that smell like you.
the rain falls on the shudders
               and this old house creaks,
       the wood taken over by arthritis.
I miss what this used to be;
Sunday morning pancakes
and casual "I love you's".
but now everything is grey.
the sunshine is gone
       and this grey is eternal.
oh how I wish
        the grey would leave
and the sunshine
   would come back.