Some days age slowly
The morning saunters in quietly
Through dusty blinds
The alarm clock holds its tongue
As it has for weeks
Months
Years
A corpse breathes into the pillow
Shuffling blankets 'til night is rediscovered
Beneath them
Minutes or hours wade past misery
And haphazardly placed bottles
The television mutters something
About politics or sports or carnage
As the sleeping dead stirs
And a malnourished arm gropes about clumsily
Til bony fingers grasp the neck
Of a Thunderbird
or Night Train
Just the thing to deaden the nerves
After last night's trip down the same tracks
When the buzzing of the vacancy sign
Is as loud as the buzzard
Who left him in disappointment
Around three in the morning
After he told her precisely where she coud put
Her bullshit
Yea, some days age slowly
Til they all look the same
And there isn't much reason to wake up
Cause the Night Train was empty
Anyways.
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