131st Floor

On the edge of a seat sits a man
On the 131st floor
In the corner of a room surrounded by glass staring straight down to the lobby floor

Too many stairs for a dress shirt
Too many fleets for shiny black shoes
For what will he do when the power runs out? What on earth will he do?

And the table is dry of brandy
There’s no papers on his desk
For what importance is a man with a pen if there’s no line to scribble on, marked with an “x?”

Below the streets, they are quiet
No one moves, not an inch
For what motivation has a person if they’re not making somebody else rich?

And every window frames a face
Every face pale as a ghost
Main Street like a conveyer belt, Time Square lynched up on a rope

And the streets reek of sweat and of urine
From the oil that seeps from our pores
Leaks the blood of the steak that is dripping, the steak we no longer afford

On the good days, he don’t leave his bed
On the good days, he don’t even bother
On the bad days he’s asked to make the way to the stage to be decorated like his father

So out you will flee from the city
Color TV at the motel
When you finally make home in that small town you no longer can drink from the well

So you go to complain to his choir
At that clinic they call City Hall
And you dream about suicide bombers while you drop your kids off at the mall

And your children are growing older
And their children are growing older
And now their children are growing older- but they’re all fucking overweight