In the nighttime, I think I hear you
Far down in the little armory,
Where the rats have only memories.
The fuse is lit; it is over.
There is no hiding under covers,
No reflection in silver mirrors.
We’ve all lived in that little armory
Where nothing is free.
Everyone is an orphan
Found on the steps of a skyscraper.
Our mothers had no faces.
Or if they did, they were hidden
As they laughed while we were crying.
As they bought what we were buying.
At the foot of the lending tree
Where nothing is ever free.
The life and death of a pumpkin
Wandering wistfully drunken
Through the alleyway.
The surgeon’s cold blade
When the moon is shrunken
Removes his toupee.
You were mine, but I could not keep you.
The moles in your pockets
Were begging to see the ocean.
Roots were shooting from your sockets,
You smiled like Davy Crockett,
And your parachutes kept deploying,
The ground was rushing gallantly –
And still nothing is free.
All day long a shadow found me frozen
Against the glacial wall.
But when I tuned around
Startled by that summer sound
There was no one there at all.
You said, “I long to dust you”.
You said, “I’ve got some polish”.
You had your peacock boa
Which belonged to Noah.
Your posture, it was permissive.
My cupboard, it was empty.
Anyway, I guess I’m dirty;
And nothing is cleaned for free.
Oh greeting card, you’ve seen everything.
The blind woman’s shirt on the clothesline.
The old west threatened by a stop sign.
All day, the engines smoking.
You thanked the children choking.
From the attic, the sinking sunlight.
The bats on the tailor’s dummy.
Pinned inside that suit, nothing is free.