I wrote this upon my brother’s bed
on a sunbeam that used to be mine
dust motes make it so solid
it’s just colour passing time
sunlight discolours these photographs
it’s what it does
taxforms they cover these photographs
it’s what they do
and when the dust and the numbers
when they get too thick
it’s the sunbeam that used to be mine
that remains so pure
mother dont leave me
not when I need you so badly
it’s only the rest of the time
that I need you so badly
the sun slips,
it’s a kamikazee
it’s a suicidal waste of time
and it’s the setting sun that we sit here breathing
tears drip off of lashes it’s just water keeping time
children are called to the table
we sit at the big table now
eyes closed and the dream is ending
the silverware is tarnished and filthy
the candlelight that marks this night
remains so pure
CHORUS
this bed was built by my father
this table was built by my father
who am I to sleep anywhere else?
who am I to know any better?
for this gift was not my choice.
©1998 rob hinkal
