"Tuesday"




8:42, the minute of night
When living kind of feels like life,
And the crickets get a second wind.

It's the neon minute
When the strip malls breathe 
Skittle-colored fire.


And the alleys are places
I'd rather not be: 
When the addicts start licking 
And the needles start clicking
Wet, on the pavement. 
And the flesh-on-flesh moving
That I'd rather not see. 


And the laundromats buzz
From the coins and the fuzz,
And the tumult in the fishbowls.
And the gray walls frame gray people, 
That at meeting, would most likely
Hate me. 


See,
I'm walkin with this head cold 
And a cough drop on my lips
And the air is homeless-bitter,
That snuffs out my cigarette. 

You can tell me I'm a hypocrite
You can tell me I'm a piece of shit
You can tell me lots of things,
Because I like your voice.


There's a club across the street
But I don't dig the owner
He's got a daughter named Samantha:
She wears clothes in a forgetful fashion
Who'll mess you up so bad
Like, "I wish I'd never touched her," bad.
She played with me for months
Until my Duracell gave out.

But really, there was not an 8:42
When I thought of her and not of you. 




And there's a bench I always sit at
Embraced by cedars, tall 
And I sit- well, slouch- cross-legged
And my ankles stick out from under my jeans
Which never fit at all.


And I wonder, as the seconds
Pass into the un-redoable
If I could do my bad day over,
And I could have a chance to right it,
What would I say to you? 

So one night I could be witness to
An 8:43 as good as 2.