November

The last we spoke
 I sang of end times
 Of cities washed away
 The bloodless halls
 Of flooded stations
 And that last train from LA
 Well three years have passed
 And here I am in the waiting room
 Delayed with all the restless
 Some sixty eyes fixed hard and fast
 On the TV playing something senseless
 Me, I dream of a broken watch
 With hands like vines
 And the dream I see the
 The sweep of centuries
 I am a priest or a bird
 And high wandered six lane
 It would be generous to call them boulevards
 With their dead-eyed metal herd
 I have come to peck the faces
 All of the faces off of every clock
 Then set myself to ponder the golden shores
 The clouds, the rotting dock
 Can you hear the carnival rising?
 The brutal fairgrounds aglow
 Sunburned families laughing at the toy gun game store
 Someone screaming below
 And I want to tell you
 About November
 The people that I met
 And sleeping badly
 On poor man pallets
 A blue blanket caked in sweat
 Cardiogram power lines
 Heart of the Department of the Interior
 Glow-in-the-dark Casio breathing faster
 The last we spoke
 I sang of end times
 Of cities washed away
 The bloodless halls
 Of flooded stations
 Could a train be an escape?