Bonaduces Damage Deposit
Isn't it strange to see these walls bare? The smell of
cats bleached out with Hi-Test that we stole for Gail's
hair, while she was stuck inside, bed-ridden, but trying
to stay positive. While our hearts were breaking every
second. Lugging our trash from back yard to front. The
cuffs of our pants soak up the dew from grass that's
never been cut. The lifeline we've refined for years and
years, dismantled to its component gears; broken down to
these five remaining faces. And even after all we've been
through, we're still not sure what we should do. I can't
believe the cost assigned to what's been lost, but maybe
when the cheque comes in, there'll be no illusions left
and we can sort through the mess; find a way to assess
the damage done. All of Gail's things boxed up in the
loft. There are no relatives to send them to, and we've
kept the things we'd want: the stupid songs that she
would sing all wrong; her short-cuts that took twice as
long; her eyes, reflecting back the morning. So goodbye,
I guess, to the things that can't last. Goodbye, house,
where we all talked away the abuses of our pasts. Where
our poverty could not undo the love I have for all of you
who are here, and the one that left us early. Chorus.
Hold my hand one last time; whisper things to remind me
of the way you'd whisper things to me.
