Friday, June 04, 2004

The stitches come loose

I pass by your neighbours
the cactus plant and chained bikes.
Maybe you’re home
Watching the news.
Your working shoes are there
But your mary-janes are out.
Nothing comes closer to this
Of pretending you’re waiting for me at your door.

The stitches come loose

The stitches come loose
When I walk by your place
I look out for his car
A make that I don’t know
And all the cars look like his
I hang about your mail slot
As they switch off the playground lights
Nothing comes closer to this
Of pretending you’re around.