Dirty magazines and buried memories
Without random connections what kind would we have?
Where would we make toast
or burn old tax returns
and letters from lovers who never loved us?
Probably down the block
where your best friend used to live
next to the shop that sold dirty magazines
which you didn’t understand why anyone would buy
and we threw snowballs
at the customers in their cars
and scared them half to death.
At least with bullets you know what you’re getting
and the resemblances stop there.
The scoreboard keeps changing and
the number of people I’ve known
is getting closer
to the number of people I’ve lost.
Words will keep us together 