Throwing the cellophane away
and smelling the gloss of newly printed lyrics
I often wish I could call you,
whichever singer you are this time,
and I would get you on the phone
and from the grids in my bathroom floor
I would tell you where you got it wrong.
You would tell me thank you for calling
and be as polite about an insult as you could
but you just don’t see it my way,
you aren’t wearing the same lenses, you might say.
Yes, and how true that is, I would say,
please, take mine and wear them for a day.
What different colors would appear, I say.
Because I too have descended a dusty gravel trail
and have been barefoot in a creek.
I picked up the same stones as you
and listened for it to speak to me, just the same.
The silence was the same for me as was for you,
but it was a different color, you have to see.
These creeks never play the way you imagine
and that’s because your imagination has a broken cord.
When I picked up the stones, I heard my fate
and realized in whom my imagination was stored,
saw how colorful the world is when awake,
and trudged back up to the hill to the car at the gate.
The case with me is that no one is any closer
to any kind of truth in creeks without that wire.
Plug yourself in, or borrow my cord
If you don’t mind, you can have my lenses too,
And I’ll call you again from my bathroom floor.