Looking through as glass darkly, Silhouettes and shadows gathering in the corner, with old books and half burned candles losing their scent,
And you knew you'd end up here, riding out the off season. Where cars fade
In the window, And
Pilate washes at the sink.
While Grandpa shaves with a straight razor,
Smiling without those Sunday dentures.

C'mon all scruffy behind the ears, Let up partake of evening, with the ghosts of dead Uncles.
As dreams remember what we've forgotten,
As an eyelash falls to the floor.