From your bed you wrote another song about bondsmen and boredom
together again in a black and white closeup of backstreet atrocities
cordoned off by tape spitting lawmen whom you DO NOT CROSS
(the last part you sang)
because we’ve all been there
with perfect spheres on course
afraid a turn of the head would mean a failed reentry:
to burn up
or worse (!)
to miss entirely
stuck drifting through the streets
until the glass in the road becomes your starry night.
I’ll echo that a good song is like a house destroyed
and that deep down we just want to pick up the pieces,
see what was hidden in the walls,
and marvel at the confetti of pornographic playing cards
now raining down on this half of Missouri.
