Secondhand Smoke

When I put my leather wallet on the dash
When the radio plays Crosby, Stills & Nash
When I'm laughing til I'm crying at a joke
When I smell the scent of secondhand smoke

I go right back riding shotgun in a gold sedan
Nineteen eighty-something, me and my old man
The crinkle of the cellophane
The crackle of tobacco flame
The stories that he told me as he held it in his hand

We met up in New York City yesterday
We had seven years of things we had to say
He had seven years of silence on his face
I tried seven, eight times, seven, to erase

We stepped out onto the street to change the scene
And he pulled a pack of Spirits from his jeans
I said "what happened to the good ol' Marlboro Lites?"
He just cracked a smile

And I went right back riding shotgun in a gold sedan
Nineteen eighty-something, me and my old man
The crinkle of the cellophane
The crackle of tobacco flame
The stories that he told me as he held it in his hand

When I don't know what we are, I still have what we were
I might just light one up tonight, let it burn

And go right back riding shotgun in a gold sedan
Nineteen eighty-something, me and my old man
The crinkle of the cellophane
The crackle of tobacco flame
The stories that he told me as he held it in his hand