We’ll take the old chevy out,

when I come back,

Into the arid, dry-dust heat of the fields

And whisper that the hay

isn’t growing fast enough.

 

The fire burns down in the canyon here

and we lie awake at night

too hot, too thirsty, too dry

and talk about when it’ll spread this way.

We talk about this…

Instead of that.

 

Danny didn’t keep a watchful eye on us,

back in the old days, did he?

We ran amok on that banana yellow school bus

rusting in the fallow fields

all peeling paint and seats that vomited mustard foam and rusty springs.

We ran into it’s foggy heat

and snuck kisses.

 

Anyway, the clock ticks on here

and the fire keeps on burning

and I wonder why they still talk about me, back home.

It wasn’t that bad,

what I did,

Was it?