Walk through the door
of a lauded, corner party store.
Point the clerk to two bottles behind the counter:
one whiskey, one wine, and pick myself up a mixture.
He catches something from me and moves small talk into story.
Keep my reactions short, detached and nonverbal;
trying to get him to cut it off.
I'm not big on words tonight;
I'm drinking alone
and don't want to be kept from the storm.
Back out of the store into the pouring
rain-soaked brown bag.
Head down, I cross the parking lot,
pausing at the car door
just to stand in the rain a little longer.
On the stereo I've got singers
to herald each move and its feeling,
to welcome all and everything.
Yeah, the mix is old,
but so am I, and so has my taste stayed.
I think I like that about myself.
Maybe I'll let you know someday
when I decide, and if I care to.
Maybe I'll let you in someday
once I'm okay and I'm sure it's safe to.
Before a glass is poured, before a bottle's opened its mouth
I can already see tomorrow for everything it will be:
a sky too bright to take in the sight of anything around.
It looks warm through our windows, but it's still a Michigan February.
To have something to share we'll pretend not to need our coats
and declare such nonsense standing in snow melt on the corner of a lot;
about how the season has finally turned.
All the while thinking to ourselves
that we'd like nothing more than to rub our bare arms
or duck back inside to bring them some warmth,
but we won't risk it. We have to stay alive in this age old game.
We have to save face.
In saving face aren't we just selling
ourselves the way we want to be seen?
Yeah, it's all been sold,
and so have I, and so my everything.
I think I hate that about myself.
Maybe I'll let you know someday
when I can't lie, and once I care to.
Maybe I'll let it win someday
once I'm too wasted, and I don't care to.
Before a glass is poured, before a bottle's opened its mouth
before a sip has sank its teeth in and left its scar,
I'm well aware and I'm looking forward.
