Who always says that he
Will change and he
Will leave
This nothing-town
(They tell me Bangalore has good weather, heh?)
And
Who reads up on where
To fly and where
To soar
With purple dreams of escapism
(You and me, and Amsterdam, and the stars?)
And
Who cleans out the refrigerator and
Pays the cable and
Pays her grave a visit
On bright folded PostIt notes
(Ah, chile, you know I'll do it tomorrow)
And
Who keeps telling me that
Today will be different than
Tomorrow- and then sits
Back down on his moth-eaten-rocking-chair
Of burnouts and burned-out
Holes that leave people
Telling themselves that they
Will go out. Someday.
(It looks like rain. You lost my umbrella.)
