once a week i make the drive two hours east to check the austin post office box and i take the detour through our old neighborhood see all the chevy impalas in their front yards up on blocks and i park in an alley and i read through the post cards you continue to send where as indirectly as you can you ask what i remember i like these tortured deviced from my old best friend well i'll tell you what i know like i swore i always would i don't think it will do you any good
i remember the train headed south out of bangkok down toward the water.
i always get a late start when the sun's going down and the traffic's filling out and the glare is hard to take i wish the west texas highway was a mobius strip i could ride it out for ever when i feel my heart break i almost swear i hear it happen in fact clean and not hard i come in off the highway and i park in my front yard fall out of the car like a hostage from a plane think of you awhile start wishing it would rain
and i remember the train heading south out of bangkok down, down towards, the water.
come in to the house put on a pot of coffee walk the floors a little while set your postcard on the table with all the others like it start sorting threw the pile check the pictures and the postmarks and the captions and the stamps for a sign of any pattern at all when i come up empty handed the feeling almost overwhelms me i let a few of my defenses fall and i smile a bitter smile it is not a pretty sight to see i think about a railroad platform back in 1983
and i remember the train heading south out of Bangkok down, down towards, the water.