Wave After Wave After Wave
Songs of Before-the-Fall and of Passing-Desire,
you drink to a juke box of leftovers, lost voices of
I'll be at your side, baby. You're at a foreign lake,
wind-crack from the northwest, waves like the sickness
of unreasonable hope about the what-lies-ahead.
Awake at dawn in a cabin beside a washed away
beach... rocks and an upturned iron bathtub outside.
Train echoes, mossy fabric arm chairs, torn curtains.
All of this could've been prevented, had you listened.
You are not in anybody else's lonesome: you own this.
It'd be something to walk audacious-naked into the sun.
Ever'body gets their narrow stretches.
And some get to be autumn stubble on high prairie
dirt layered over a ghost town... a lone tree for shelter.
You've shaken hands with age-fragile wanderers
abandoned in small other-side-of-the-ditch hotels.
You've followed their haggard-face stares enough
to know you are encased in your own mirror now:
the grass is high and vanilla ice cream white.
Someone's set your medicine on a rusty metal plate.