Enough is enough:
She was owned by stuff
which didn’t work,
Was past its best,
Had dried up,
Or was just plain
useless.
Like her husband.
It was Armageddon. As in: ‘I’m a-geddin’ outa here’.
In boots made for walkin’.
Which is just what they did
Making tracks.
Felt like she was playing out her own track
Wearing her Gibson acoustic, not near its best-by.
Waiting for that midnight train. But none going to Georgia
Nor not nowhere else, come to that.
And the good Lord wouldn’t buy her a Mer-cedes Benz.
So it was midnight at the oasis, of the bus station.
Waiting forever in blue jeans, then rolling, rolling, rolling,
Down route 66, without no kicks
To that Spe-cific
Tee shirt junction with PCH and the
Actual Pa-cific
which had no particular place to go, not neither.
Existential question left, or right?
Hot or cold?
Or stop right here? Right on the Babe-Watch beach!
But like the song, nobody had no cash for a geetar man.
(Let alone a geetar woman.)
She knew of a likeable man, with no fulfillable plan,
but who did have an RV, down here on Skid Row.
Up by East Third
So picked up a Bird
And went to hunt, the old bugger down.
A formidable task, no one to ask.
RV’s by the hundred, problems by the score.
Two tone RVs. Off white and rust
Under a sky of tarpaulin blue:
Flat-lining under lines of towering palms,
Betrayed mattresses, lying all around.
Not much hope. And no joke,
finding her new, old bloke.
But oh lord! was that a familiar chord, she heard,
Way away over there?
Or was it way away over there?
Over now.
A lost chord.
Long story short.
She couldn’t find him.
But then
She did.
