The Morgue

From the sunny skies of Brooklyn, New York,
you and I drove into structured suburbia;
drove to avoid the stench of the city,
and leave our problems behind for the summer.
But you found yourself in the morgue again,
staring into the time machines there.
I found myself in the strip mall again, with
the addict's delusions of the Wiccans in the parking lot;
we checked ourselves into the hospital again,
which welcomed us with open arms.
You watched us like ants under a microscope;
left your corpse somewhere distant and betrayed.
You visited me in the hospital again,
with a young woman (a friend of yours).
Saw by the twitch in her eye that she was from
somewhere deep, down in the hidden depths of America;
dark, painful fragment from the past.
But that day, she stood bright and beaming,
with a sharp lightbulb smile;
the other night's nightmare she decided she was ready
for dreams of death.
Got out of the hospital again;
was thrown out with open arms.
Found someone I could be stupid about again, with
smooth, dark hair resting on my chest,
troubling, violent fantasies,
boring parties,
and dreams of death.
We all had supper again,
and you sat with a tall glass of the reddest blood;
and you almost found out where it came from.
We thought you knew! It came from down the road;
came from somewhere distant and betrayed,
came from somewhere far behind.