#70 THE COUCH BY THE CREEK
#70 THE COUCH BY THE CREEK
(Americana)
The train bumps and rattles,
His shirt collar's too tight.
Surrounded by strangers,
This city's the wrong damn size.
A small girl, blue dress on her mother's lap,
She just stares, not blinking.
Grey buildings flash past,
He sighs and then closes his eyes
Whip-por-whills whistling,
Dragonflies dancing.
On the edge of sleep,
The couch by the creek.
The sidewalk's crowded, they bump shoulders,
She looks, they look away.
The girl behind her in line,
Her small wrist tattoo says "my song."
The line inches forward,
The wind gusts and swirls.
Smokers curse and cup their hands,
A man in robes rings a gong.
Dark red clay anthill,
Grey rabbit, stock-still,
On the edge of sleep,
The couch by the creek.
Some places you leave,
Some places you carry.
Fountain at the center of the park,
Shadows stretch across the pathways.
He taps his fingers on his bench,
Counting rows of trees.
Ducks walk in a line around a corner,
An old lady pushes her dog in a carriage,
He rubs his neck and frowns,
Then turns to face the evening breeze.
Amber barn cat purrs,
Willow tree whispers,
On the edge of sleep,
The couch by the creek.