there’s a picture of a graveyard just inside my fourth rib
some of the rib missing creates a picture frame
bone wanders looking for a widow
a piece of land
a homestead

it should be harder not to run into some people
instead it takes airplanes
calls from the office
summer’s ending

none of my friends have rock star haircuts
none of them sit on the ground late at night outside
but we’re saying
we’re comments for comets
for looks between

give me some of that old fashioned
I’ll let my blood travel
it all empties into the same place in all of us anyway
then is spreads like water spilled on a table
trying to seep into parts of us where it doesn’t belong
shining headlights
all the cars in the drive-in leaning on their horns
so if you’re going to say something to me now might be the time