Calendar Days

It's a high beam drive and I think of you sitting at home
 Your dad's TV Weeks stacked to the window
 And before I knock I just catch your face
 Washed in the Panadol light
 I'd let you know that I'd be here, but that's not my style
 And way all up and down the line
 Standard time, standard time
 White metal on a wet, black drive
 They're all calendar days, but you try to break out
 And that old best friend is a Zamels ad
 Bleeding ink on wet pavement or blazing on a model hand
 And there's a kind of quiet, a fighter jet's applause
 They're all saw-toothed fragments scattered in an empty hall
 And I'm reminded of a rewinding cassette
 As tyre rubber comes blooming around your legs
 And I'm waking up and the sky is pure appliance white
 A day as true as TV cop flashback
 And way all up and down the line
 Standard time, standard time
 White metal on a wet, black drive
 They're all calendar days, but you try to break out