our father who art in a penthouse 
sits in his 37th floor suite 
and swivels to gaze down 
at the city he made me in 
he allows me to stand and 
sollicit graffiti until 
he needs the land I stand on 
I in my darkened threshold 
am pawing through my pockets 
the receipts, the bus schedules 
the matchbook phone numbers 
the urgent napkin poems 
all of which laundering has rendered 
pulpy and strange 
loose change and a key 
ask me 
go ahead, ask me if I care 
I got the answer here 
I wrote it down somewhere 
I just gotta find it 
I just gotta find it 
 
somebody and their spraypaint got too close 
somebody came on too heavy 
now look at me made ugly 
by the drooling letters 
I was better off alone 
ain't that the way it is 
they don't know the first thing 
but you don't know that 
until they take the first swing 
my fingers are red and swollen from the cold 
I'm getting bold in my old age 
so go ahead, try the door 
it doesn't matter anymore 
I know the weakhearted are strongwilled 
and we are being kept alive 
until we're killed 
he's up there the ice 
is clinking in his glass 
I don't ask 
I just empty my pockets and wait 
it's not fate 
it's just circumstance 
I don't fool myself with romance 
I just live 
phone number to phone number 
dusting them against my thighs 
in the warmth of my pockets 
which whisper history incessantly 
asking me 
where were you 
 
I lower my eyes 
wishing I could cry more 
and care less, 
yes it's true, 
I was trying to love someone again, 
I was caught caring, 
bearing weight 
 
but I love this city, this state 
this country is too large 
and whoever's in charge up there 
had better take the elevator down 
and put more than change in our cup 
or else we 
are coming 
up