Winter of Discontent

How I covet the stucco fronted lives;
soft lighting, desirable postcode
of those who had chances
and better parents. The acerbic brew
spilled from my cups
filled pages with resentments.
Could this admission
crack the sappy veneers
or prise open clenched fingers?

I hear a man speak of a power
softly, in a hundred abstract nouns.
he once held bitter
as my own caustic cannister
but his eyes now are freer.

So there is hope.
I pray for you
and pray to be you.