Wellington's Wednesdays

The night's a spill, a permanent stain; the city soaks in silence, salt and dirty snow. A blue glow from the tv again, the cutains never open, faces never show. And every time a light is turned on there's a light that's turned off somewhere. For every failing feeling that's lost there's a perfest cost, there's a debt you can't share. And every night they play the same song to the same offbeat believers. And everyone is singing along wearing blueblack eyes, wearing dead men's neck-ties. Clocks stopped at the corner

of Albert will show your last

bus left an hour ago, so stumble down the stairs

again, pretend you're not to

proud to understand and still

know when your voice cuts

through the crowd that lonely people talk too loud. Numbers

on a washroom stall. There's

always more then one last call calling you.