Petta

You direct me to make tea, why is it so hard to stay, lies i tell of where i've been, you wipe my face, turn a cheek, make all the wrong arrangements, what do you see, you'd gamble anything, including all our days, without even a kitchen sink, your Ma crawled to West Kirby, from Liverpool in her day, grateful on her knees. is my luck your uncertainty, seeing life through your gaze, the oranges and the sea, you'll go out you said to me, in a blue cigarette haze, maybe that has to be, knowing what to say. Do you drive on fire,/ beneath evening trees seeing those those photos, of your family long deceased, slipping beneath the road, dusty places along the wires, dancing on the breeze, homing like a pigeon flyer, settling on the stones, kids kicked on the street, another of Uncle Joe, the father alongside who died, so young his wife screamed, Why, Sunday faces looking inspired, houses bought under Kennedy, moving like you wouldn't mind, a sense of ease their life is tame. Great Days in the fast lane learning of trouble in shameful ways, or act the holy one, against your lover, all fires raised, awash on the coast hooray/ state sheltered by rain what you love most learn to forget her