Pyramid

Tell me Margaret, what is coming down this river?
You’ve been watching so much longer now than I.
Do you know Margaret, just what will this day deliver,
Does it work out tooth for tooth and eye for eye?

They started stacking up the stones the very day that you were born.
No matter how you grew, they would tower above you.
You could change your name, move all the way to sunny California.
But when you start your life anew, does that long shadow follow you?

Who was it Margaret, that chose to resurrect you here for me, in scattered lines of poetry,
This distant, wistful girl I see reflected in your eyes?
Forgive me Margaret, all the ways I am mistaken, all the liberties I’ve taken,
I’ve projected you in costumes I don’t think were quite your size.

Now here I’m climbing up these stones a hundred years from where you were born,
Looking for a song that could take me to you.
I have traced these roads, drove past your home in Burbank, California,
But you were not inside—you’ve found a better place to hide.

And tell me Margaret, when I’m gone, what will I want,
To be left at the bottom of a garbage bin, or dusted off and pulled up onto stage?
Will it please me when someone lights a candle and says my name?
Will I say—leave me in my pyramid, blow out the flame and close the lid,
This story’s done, why can’t we turn the page?