Some Kind of Lunch
Some kind of lunch, alright, small cities
sunning their spines on rye bread;
all the hungry road signs went hope to take a nap.
America, in your pocket, falls through the hole in your pocket, and
becomes a planet auditioning for the lead in this
new universe musical.
Got my dixie cup full of rain,
sit in only with castanet grace,
the afternoon of your blood
waiting too long for the bus,
tired, tried, but true
man is contrary, woman waits for him to get it on the dark
side of the so called moon,
some kind of all night reason for staying asleep,
some kind of elegance in the trash cans of who we are,
America, stumbling on the back porch
me right in it,
stumbling with verve,
man might not be worth all that much
and the woman says okay, go ahead and sing
Got my bus ticket of jazz
levitating, without malice, baby, right above all that flame.
---Scott Wannberg
|
