Home November Shore

At a bus stop in a border town

This lovelorn refugee

Slowly smokes a cigarette

And trembles, ill at ease

She should have been here hours ago

I watch the eastward road

But the sun tracks fast across the sky

And still nobody shows

And then I’m torn away at last

The doors slam hard and fast

Watch the empty houses

Press my nose against the glass

I guess I’ll go home then

It’s time to go home again

I’ll try to go home again

At a wooden house on Fleet Street

I took my final vows

Put a pen to paper then

Described what I had found

But words all lose their meaning when

You’re lost alone in love

And whatever mail I sent that day

Got lost and wasn’t enough

So I read a guide to San Francisco

In a boat out far from shore

Thought of all the love I’d make

If I ever got back to port

Now Coney Island’s emptied out

That cold November shore

Between the freak-show carousels

Dance the ballerina ghosts

I dance the ghost dance for my love

I paint my forehead blue

Raise my hands towards paradise

But my directions get confused

And I know I marked myself a man

With war paint on my cheeks

But there’s no strength left in my hands

Can hardly even speak