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The American Scene
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Hungry Hands
You're calm and cutting.
I'm speaking softly in your passenger seat,
on the finger points of deceiving, withholding, and the difference between.
You crack a window, clear the air, meet quiet words with empty stares.
I ask a god I don't know to get us home before this car explodes
We smoked and burned black.
Dripped like wax from the devil's hands that pooled into something I'm told resembled dishonesty.
And with each word I stacked on top of the last I could feel you pulling so slow and so steady away from me.
Don't put me away with your crossed out days and filled up spiral notebooks.
Carefully placed on shelves in case you should care to take a new look.
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Your hungry hands held a home over my head, ripped at my clothes, pushed into bed.
We made so many ways to help ourselves forget.
We smoked and burned black.
Dripped like wax from the devil's hands that pooled into something I'm told resembled dishonesty.
And with each word I stacked on top of the last I could feel you pulling so slow and so steady away from me.
Don't be so sure that I'm overlooking details.
Don't be so sure I've got nothing left to say.
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