Read The Signs

Paging through an old notebook this morning I found these lyrics, which I wrote on August 23, 2008. They were once a part of a mediocre song, but perhaps stand up a little straighter as a poem.

Read The Signs

Old Man's sneaking up on me
The gas light's on the porch
Baby is all grown up
I still carry a torch

I'm not too sure what day it is
I used to wear a watch
The past shares my barstool
As my finger stirs my scotch

I don't know what's ahead of me
And I'm done with what's behind
The drum beats ever softer
As I try to read the signs

There's a dusty man in a trenchcoat
Hanging fingers of paper and bone
He wrestles with an angel
Who's already turned to stone

There's a saxman on the corner
Patchwork quilt of blues and soul
I see Manhattan from my window
As harbor bells begin to toll

What Whitman is a ghost
Under lights on the promenade
You're too young to remember
His stories fantastic and odd

The sun's too bright today
I'd rather stay inside
And huddle with my nightmares
Like the one my father died