November

The last we spoke
I sang of end times
Of cities washed away

The bloodless halls
Of flooded stations
And that last train from LA

Well three years have passed
And here I am in the waiting room
Delayed with all the restless

Some sixty eyes fixed hard and fast
On the TV playing something senseless

Me, I dream of a broken watch
With hands like vines

And the dream I see the
The sweep of centuries
I am a priest or a bird

And high wandered six lane
It would be generous to call them boulevards
With their dead-eyed metal herd

I have come to peck the faces
All of the faces off of every clock

Then set myself to ponder the golden shores
The clouds, the rotting dock

Can you hear the carnival rising?
The brutal fairgrounds aglow
Sunburned families laughing at the toy gun game store
Someone screaming below

And I want to tell you
About November
The people that I met

And sleeping badly
On poor man pallets
A blue blanket caked in sweat

Cardiogram power lines
Heart of the Department of the Interior
Glow-in-the-dark Casio breathing faster

The last we spoke
I sang of end times
Of cities washed away

The bloodless halls
Of flooded stations
Could a train be an escape?