Is there space on the bus
Moving in one straight line
In space and time
All along
While the bell rings
From the yellow line
All the way down the roads
As the old chains creek and pull
The linear bus and its passengers
Freewheeling
At last
Such a lonely job
With a short description
A round sad face
In a Rockwell exhibition
With tears at the computer
And no real sign of life
In his eyes
Just trying to make the call
Get by
With a new promotion or design
Thinking now of how to resign
With dignity and praise
For these are his final days
Reasonable Christmas
With a happy start
With minds open
To the lines read from the sky
Happy friends and family
In great consultation
Avoiding politics
Or resignation
For a meager celebration
Hands together
For its a reasonable Christmas
Given the weather
The course bank
Amongst the ranks
Of the young and old
Playing it up straight
Holding on hold
The debts owed
To the course bank
In time repaid
Or confiscated
When the winners lose
And the other waited
Pigeon gains
Importing new clothes
And merchants
On the shores of Lake Michigan
In the December cold
All around the city
I’m told
The talk of the merchandise
Pigeons
They are on the news
Heard of the businessmen rats too
Notorious jurisdiction
Makes it heard
A new infliction
Point and moment
Sight unseen
This is what the new world means
Stall exhibition
No prohibition
Problems made
With no resolve
We have to grow
And evolve
Stalling out
Over the holidays
For the world can say
What a great nothing
What a moment to cease
All of that just to
Keep the peace
Rowing on the frozen shores
I salute the moving rebellion
Steadfast in moving fast
Making decisions
For now and the future
The rebellion lives on
With or without you
I keep my brow low
As the ore slaps the water
And thrust the team onward
Into the morning fog
Red lights at stops
At this stop in the year
The south shore train
Draws near
Blinking in red and white
Double wide loads
As the snow blows
Between the signs
Calling a slowdown
A new year bustles with possibilities
Here
Build wane
Up in the clouds
Near where the rain
Turns to snow
In the waning hours
Of letting go
Up in the lit stars
Among the wires
It looks the same
As when the build falls flat
And the feelings wane
A Cup of Songwriting 