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David Thomas and Two Pale Boys
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Come Home - Green River
Come on home,
dontcha know?
I was the spy in the heart of our home.
The double-life of a provocateur,
I's like the doctor who won't provide a cure.
Come home, nobody's waiting.
Come home, somebody cares.
Come home, I'm at the freeway.
Come home, nobody's there.
I saw this guy in Green River, Utah,
in a hardware store -
paddling his hands in bins of nails.
Like he was playing at some keyboard.
Like he was listening to something far away.
Like he was watching for something intangible.
I know this guy.
He'd close up shop early,
close up shop late,
and get in his coupe de ville,
roll the windows up and drive,
air conditioner full blast.
Sorta thing started a long time ago, this habit,
when he'd forgotten how to sleep,
and remembered how to dream.
It was the voices of his brothers in the hills,
all them bones of worlds gone by -
time-blasted and sun wearied.
And he'd drive so as not to hear them -
air conditioner, windows up.
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And he'd drive til he could drive no more -
and pull off the side of the road,
pull behind a roadside sign,
crawl in the backseat,
and wait for the dawn.
The dawn would never come.
Early morning mists would rise,
and the night birds would call for it -
but the morning would not come.
Come home, nobody's waiting.
Come home, somebody cares.
Come home, I'm at the freeway.
Come home, nobody's there.
I'm at the bridge,
but the river's enraged.
I'm a bird,
but this bird is encaged.
I'm a free man only -
I'm just otherwise engaged.
Honey, I'm a fool.
'In my head morning never comes.
'And, though I wait, the daylight never shows.'
The carpenter sun would be rising in the east,
and you'd see him there in the morning -
paddling his hands in bins of nails.
Like he was playing at some keyboard.
Like he was listening to something, something far away.
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