I can remember being seven years old
|
And having goldfish that circled around in a bowl
|
And I would watch the forest burn
|
and listen to the wind blow
|
I can remember the table, the drapes, and the window
|
The dark brown everything: decoration, and styling
|
Most of all, I can remember my mother smiling
|
Worn out and faded, my hometown was scrappy
|
More than anything she wanted us to be happy
|
Little to eat and back and forth to the hospital
|
She was right, it's better to be happy if possible
|
But the old man was under attack and was weak
|
And continued to beat us several times a week
|
He lived like a king even though we were piss poor
|
I tried to be strong and careful what I wished for
|
My outside ached, and my inside stung
|
The long leather belt had replaced his tongue
|
Not knowing how to run or how to hit the brakes
|
A white picket fence was built around a pit of snakes
|
Both a wonder and frightening, the thunder and the lightning
|
These were the sounds and sights of a thousand fights
|
My mother, the poor fish, staging eternal
|
Charades and parades, for the raging inferno
|
Wanting to be happy, beaten all the while
|
Asking me always: "Why don't you ever smile?"
|
And she'd show me how to do it, mother and wife
|
It was the saddest smile I ever saw in my life
|
And it hurt worse than death but for her sake I tried
|
And one day all of those goldfish died
|
Hurricane, forest fire, out of control
|
Eyes open, floating on the water in the bowl
|
And when my father came home, he walked through the door
|
And threw those fish to the cat on the kitchen floor
|
And the wind died too. And I was still a child
|
And the three of us watched as my mother smiled
|
And the wind died too. And I was still a child
|
And the three of us watched as my mother smiled
|
And the wind died too. And I was still a child
|
And the three of us watched as my mother smiled
|
And the wind
|
Died, too
|
|
-----------------
|
The Floor
|
| Buck 65 |
