all
our heads turned up to blue to seek one flying by.
And
when the streetcars passed on through
all
us boys gathered wishing we could too,
just
to leave this place tomorrow for the world
beyond
the doorway ‘fore we die.
But
when the can man dropped on by
and
our sky-blue visions got too dry,
each
one of these young dreamers felt
the
sun start steaming him.
And
when those trains went riding by
we’d
all run down to put our pennies down and fly,
and
lie on the sides to feel the tremors through
and
walk it ‘til the skies were blue,
and
hang out by the power station for the grid
near
the Moped dunes to buy a clue.
Shortcuts
were a gamble all poison oaked
but
the girls were fine and getting soaked
out
by the pines with a bottle of wine
that
night out by the lines.
And
when the sprinklers shot their jets
all
the girls would roll on through those grasses wet.
But
on that sticky ground of morning July brew
were
planted all us dreamers who
had
to buy our solitude away from the main drag—
(hoping
we were the lucky few).
But
one girl got pregnant in the glade
out
where the boys lay upon the ground
of
the short-cut yard and where their
park
fences didn’t guard her.
So
when the streetlights flickered bright
we
all ran home or else we faced the twilight tight.
But
beneath those telephone pole crucifixes
this
wanderer found his lighted path
between
those streetlights down the line
like
‘Little Light O Mine’ by sight.
But
the shadows down around the posts
hosted
crawlers in the dark all blinded
on
the sidewalks to where the light
it
could not reach them.
And
when the vans pulled up the sides
some
guys were left there waiting for their rides,
and
once they had disturbed the halls and lot
and
all their dealing’s gotten through,
they
used to run back with their prize
and
then sit trapped in basements
on
their low-dream daring highs,
all
unseen those evenings in their Eden’s
sickliness
and guise before the lights
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