Hours in the meter.
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Pack up our nets too soggy to set
and I'll give you a ride for your final mile,
and listen a while to your rivers defiled
in search of the last place to park.
Oh, it's my way, I cannot escape
putting hours in the meter 'til it's getting late.
This ain't no day to remember,
it ends like a springtime in late November,
and now
it is time
to go home.
The tension it mounts as the crows start to count,
the lines all held down by their strangling friends
and the room starts to bend to the words that they send
while cars driving by are laughing at us.
