Sunny mornings in fields of dull gold
we blaze trails through shoulder high field-grass.
The story is never the same.
You’re a motorcycle thug cruzin’ the strip,
I’m a marooned sailor looking for home.
You were always the stronger
more clever one of us.
Fields weren’t big enough though
to escape your blowing winds.
Fluorescent lit afternoons in faded 60’s desks
we push papers and tests till hand cramps.
The story is always the same.
I’m knee deep in homework,
You’re up to the eyes in a book.
A certain understanding grips
with the clock robbing minutes.
We drive quiet streets of understanding
this old town could never hold you.
Glowing nights from phones and screens
we shoot empty words from separate states.
The story never came.
You’re dressed in your white coat,
I’m drifting eyes shut in a canoe.
When I re-find home...
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