(Smoke Called Air)

Reflections off Broadway like a coo to Saint Charles
spin to inverse in hopes that we're worthwhile in those
candy cigarette moments of radiant confession when
we sit with our smoke called air and realize how
we have no profession – just a few moments of well-passed time
when everything you breath in feels insignificant and
everything you breath out feels like a sigh or a sign or
some wanderlust moment of who dunnit, you dunnit, maybe
it dunnit right and with all that on cue it made this easier to write and
play or cry "Darling our days! With tightropes like curls that
connect eyebrow to eyebrow never to furrow!" But
that I know that they will
and they'll press like ardor and fame or "Who's that kid?" "Oh
he doesn't have a name." And if they do strip us down
past our sakes and our cames
what then of our air, of it's tastes to our veins when
we sit beneath halogen safelights that couldn't mean much
when everything we've loved is worse than lost