Working-class man

To begin my ordeal
I’ll paint a picture of you
You’re neither black nor blue
A crescent grey by the San Francisco Bay
That’d be a delightful trip to take with you
With you, with you, with you
Holding hands on cobblestone with you

You’re stoic and you’re handsome
A beautiful display
Of a man that gets up in the morning with a set path on his way
Though distractions have come
He has tried to ignore them
Sometimes succumbing to crisp avalanches of boredom
But he always gets back up
He’s got things to do
People relying on him
His assets, his skills
He earns hundred dollars bills
Shoves em in his pocket and moves on to the next routine
Sometimes he’s kind of keen

Part two is where he hides himself from the people that love him
And at times it looks like he thinks he’s above them
But he doesn’t have that problem
He doesn’t have that problem

The fiber glass of the doorway shuts and he’s surrounded by mahogany walls
He feels like he’s there again
Back there
He feels like he’s going there again
He feels like within time they’ll take him back and there will be no way out now
Clerks are answering the phones
Men are in their suits in their offices
Surrounded by the mahogany walls he begins to grow sick, like something vile is to come
He picks up his briefcase, adjusts his tie, and says
“Just another day”
Just another day in the stratosphere
Just another day when you and I are not near
Just another day when I have nothing to fear
We tell ourselves
We trace our fingers on the bookshelves
We know we’re all going to Hell

His steps echo in the empty parking lot from his tan work boots
He wishes for complete silence
End the noise
In the car he drives, screaming at other drivers over lane changes and out-of-state license plates
Sprinkled with some of the most darling grand performances I’ve yet to see, to his indie pop burnt CDs that play on the stereo
You wouldn’t know it was him
That’s why I love when he lets me in
A part of the show, a guest within
The whole thing, he does with a grin

Oh if dancing was a sin

He swallows pills without water
Doesn’t read the labels
I keep my observations close
They’re my little secret tales
He doesn’t want me to be serious
He doesn’t agree that I’m lucky
My arms around his waist
I tell him please don’t love me

Please don’t love me
If dancing was a sin
We wouldn’t read the labels
We’d dive right in
Where we belong, that’s right
Keep you up all night

That’s the feature film
Good night, you’re still my dream
I can still hear you scream
Though to me it’s like a calm river stream

I keep my observations close
These are my little secret tales
Endless wishes for you
That you stay neither black nor blue
My heart goes out to you

Discover more from Lilac Dove

Subscribe to get the latest posts to your email.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *