Sunday Morning, at a Funeral

Sunday morning still laid innocent in sheets, barely half asleep
Sunday morning I was dreaming I was turning from a busy street into a parking lot
Sunday morning broke and dragged me out of bed, slightly less asleep
Sunday morning I was warming all the cold parts of my head in cups and coffee pots

In the winter I wonder what it's like to be anywhere else, to be anywhere but here
If I leave and don't return, I hope the factories get full of people making furniture, and the river running clear

Sunday morning fell apart and back to sleep where I was running late, where I looked out of place
Sunday morning pace of steady nervous feet headed for the church doors
Sunday morning dressed in suits and shades of black, Sunday morning soft in Sunday best
Sunday someone's never coming back here to this place anymore

In the winter I wonder what it's like to be anywhere else, to be anywhere but here
If I leave and don't return, I hope the factories get full with people making furniture, and the river running clear

Sunday morning stared at rows of crowded pews, half or all asleep, looking for a seat
Sunday morning waiting for a call from you but didn't hear my phone ring
Sunday morning had to sit and watch you bawl, Sunday morning left the ringer off
Sunday morning missed it when you called and couldn't do a thing but watch

In the winter I wonder what it's like to be where you are, where you are, where you are
In the winter I wonder what it'd be like if you were still here
Would the factories fill? Would the river run clear? Would the river run?

Sunday morning dreamt about a moment passed about a time I failed
Sunday morning I was staring at the clock trying to push it back
Sunday morning wished to be a kid
Sunday morning shook me all the way awake, stirred me from the dream
Sunday morning I was thinking of a phone call I should make to you but never did, I never did