Routine

It seems like finally at last
     it's gotten to the point I knew it would
I'm singing sad songs just for laughs.

And if it's half past time to just relax
     then I'll find myself looking for an empty hole
Unfold the map and circle relapse

I've got some time to waste,
Some empty space,
Some folks I hardly trust.
So, cell by cell, I'll move through
     this zip code grid
So long point A, point B or bust.

(I know) somehow the city smells tonight
It's funny, but I can't decide--
  it's sharpie pens or pesticide
     or fire on mountain pines.

Across the bridge, I see our ghosts,
     2002 on Dow Street.
Two years before the Fire of '04
     burnt mean for 3 years
     and numbered us among its casualties.
Good thing they can't see me...

I don't think that I'm on the first or last
     full-seated, sweat-reeking passenger car,
I'm in the middle of the train
     I'm a stow-away
     No window seat, here
     that's a fact.

In the middle car
It's never far
     to nowhere's gleaming teeth.
Front car's futures. Caboose is past.
     Center's going
Nowhere. Points A and B are just
  the bookends on the shelf
  and here I am, collecting dust.

And how this city sleeps tonight
Depends on the insecticide--
     how much they spray into the night
       and if I wanna stay inside.