Backseat

You were hiding in the backseat of my Lincoln

Underneath a blanket with your head against the door

And I was already halfway through Ohio

When I heard your soft voice singing to a song on the radio

I crept out in the darkness of the morning

Past our sleeping father, a cold cigar lying at his feet

He was surrounded by his books down in the parlor

Filled with all the words that he had wanted us to read and know

But this is not an old American story

About the rugged men who came out from the east

And I am not some outlaw from the Badlands

Or a gambler running tables in New Orleans

So I put you on a bus back to Boston

With some money in your shoe for a meal

And I turn my car in the other direction

Just hoping that I hear a note from the backseat