Feverfew Last Call
We have a small apartment above an off-track betting
club. It’s filled with angry losers and ripped up ticket
stubs. The men all sit in plastic chairs or lean against
the walls wondering if they’ll make it to the bar before
last call. They wander home at three a.m. to fall into
their beds and think about the lives they’ve lost,
somewhere inside their heads. It’s late and you’re not
here. Somewhere in between the lines you’ve disappeared.
Now there’s nothing left of you-- a tired ghost in
hospital perfume. The sky's screaming in the dark,
setting off the car alarms. So, take it as a warning sign
or maybe just for piece of mind: When you’re scratching
at your scars, I’ll remember who you are. Now, the cigar
smoke of an ugly man slowly ascends the stairs and it
seeps into my pillowcase, and it settles in my hair. I
wake up feeling nauseous because I know you are gone for
good. I wish there were some way to tell you that I would
help you if I could. But I’m not the one with the golden
claw. I’m just another circus. I live above a furnace.
You’re holding on to something worthless. Now we’re out
of time, wishing that I could have changed your mind.
