I can’t call you Paul. I’m on my sickbed. and when I’m not there I get up and wander the night with my phone and cigarettes in hand wishing they would help. I’m way too sick Paul. pray for me. prayers are little children running to the sky. you come back to me in the dark. folk guitar, passing cars, the doors ajar, I think you’re far, I don’t know where you are. I haven’t been beautiful for awhile. there’s grime smudged on the sun. I’ve been writing little poems without cutting myself wide open. I can’t call you Paul. I have nothing to say. I was out on the deck crying. it’s last call Paul. the midnight ride of Paul Revered. what am I going to say before I die? I wish I would say something grand as a cathedral. summer is almost over. wasn’t even here at all Paul. and they can’t even see me. I’m not even there. they don’t know my heart’s in there’s as it’s in yours. and it ain’t like Red Top road when rent was $500 a month. I don’t know Paul this is all the stuff I’d be saying to you if I could call. This is the only way I can say it at all. the rain has a funny way of beating down on me. it used to cleanse me. now it just washes me away. there are visions from my sickbed. scratchings of eternity and the way her eyes pour honey. how am I going to haunt the night? I just cried again. I took my meds. I picture Jesus carrying me through ocean waves that keep knocking us around. all this while she’s singing hymns in bed. blankets like heaven. the glory of God in a night light. and what did the Virgin Mary whisper to Jesus when He was a baby? O the things a mother says to her child. hear the music box Paul? it’s playing for us all. with that lullaby I’ll say goodbye.
