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Can you call it what you see when you're reaching for the light, |
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Found again before you leave, holding back enough to try, |
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Overheard talking down from somewhere, just above, |
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To take you in, then throw you out, when the open evenings come |
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Through the years you're due to spend in the promise of the vice, |
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Pouring shares to weathered friends ditching out at closing time, |
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Caving in and trailing off, will they find the fight to run, |
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Doubled back until they've gone where the open evenings come |
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Shaking in the coldest hours kept just out of mind, |
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Whispered where they wouldn't go, tying off the broken lines |
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That sent you on as if to show something waiting in the night, |
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Facing up and looking in, that you'd finally had too much, |
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At last, to be? |
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It won't begin until the open evenings come. |
