There is only one prayer

shadows recognize,

only one they permit

to escape the center

of each night,

the pendular tick

of your grandfather's clock,

let run the sleepless

border of your bed,

or experience the heft

of her cancer,

the sinking of days

beneath her like sand:

Lord, let it be me.

Nothing else works,

nothing else evades

the simple truth

that God, the Irish say,

hates a coward;

they might have added,

prefers a deal,

requires a trade.

George Lober