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 yard up on blocks
and i park in a alley and i read through the postcards you continue to send where as indirectly as you can you ask what i remember i like these torture devices from my old best friend
well i'll tell you what i know like i swore i always would i don't think it's going to do you any good
i remember the train headed south outta bangkok down toward the water
i always get a late start when the sun's going down and the traffic's thinning out and the glare is hard to take i wish the west texas highway was a mobius strip i could ride it out forever when i feel my heart break i almost swear I hear it happen is the clear and that hard i come in off the highway and i park in my front yard i fall out of the car like a hostage from a plane think of you a while start wishing it would rain
and i remember the train headed south outta bangkok down toward the water
i come into the house put on a pot of coffee walk the floors a little while i set your post card on the table with all the others like it i start sorting through the pile i check the the picture and the postmarks and the captions and the stamps for signs of any patern 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 not a pretty thing to see think about a railroad platform back in nineteen eighty three
and i remember the train headed south outta bangkok down down toward the water