What’s become of all the marks we left?
The summer leaves its grit with me,
and skeletons litter all the window sills.
The rain arrives in unforgiving sheets,
as we wait together in silent spaces.
There are screams in my pockets
and stones in both my hands.
A grey haze shields the sun’s rays,
setting fire to out fragile straw throats.
Chase me up and down the city blocks.
Run your fingers through my greasy hair.
The fall will bring me all the peace I need.
What’s become of all the singing birds?
Or have my ears only become deaf?
I’m still holding all the summer’s grit.
But what’s become of all the marks we left?
A childhood memory,
a stone from the creek.
The dogs run home for suppertime.
The adults share glasses of wine on the back porch,
while the kids are fast asleep.
Bare feet on an old wooden floor,
a cigarette in the kitchen.
A new song for tomorrow
when the dogs run home for suppertime.
A boy in the mud
and a man in the water.
behind an old dog’s daughter.
With an old sock in the grass
and a bare foot on the rocks.
Strolling back to the cabin room.
“I can’t do this anymore.”
I’ve got to break this old habit.
Runaway for knowledge.
Stick around for some sympathy.
With our hair grown long
and our bellies aching,
a couple words can bring you home.
While the houseless man sits
on his old dusty rug.
And the passers smoke cigarettes,
talking of the weather and their families.
You daydream of sleep.
Singing those old songs.
Returning on home,
a room with four walls,
a bed with a cage.
You’re never alone,
as the days always fade away.
But still you walk to the corner store
with dreams of a rest.
They tell me home’s what you make it.
I guess I haven’t made mine yet.
He smokes his last cigarette
while a diner girl calls his name.
An old Toyota and a broken back seat.
He remembers all the sounds.
She reminds him of the song.
While a diner girl calls his name,
he always thinks of that fall.
An old man now,
newspaper in tow.
The diner girl brings his check
as he watches out the window.
Outside on the grass,
two teens and a radio.
A song from the past
and a cigarette for the road.
I saw myself last night.
Not in a mirror,
or a puddle,
or a window.
Running down the Burnside Bridge
with my heart in my hands.
Down to a river,
the name unknown to me.
With blood in my eyes
and rocks in my gut,
I saw myself last night.
What I saw wasn’t me,
or a ghost,
or a dream.
What I saw was a broken watch
on a bony wrist,
on a shaky hand,
reaching for an apple tree.
Who’s calling the shots?
Who’s running the show?
When the stage is in flames
and there aren’t any curtains to close.
I saw myself last night
for the last time, I’m sure.
I left that nervous boy by the river under Burnside Bridge
on a stage bound to burn.