Open house now for your fading heart,
|
Tell your ghost it's time to hide;
|
Strangers won't know when to stop and start
|
Once they've fin'ly got inside.
|
|
Spir'ling staircase toward your dusty mind,
|
With crates and boxes and bags and trunks;
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No one cares what tender dreams they'll find,
|
All they'll see up there is junk
|
|
With silver dollars from a ragdoll's ear
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And merc'ry dimes for buttons, too,
|
And flutes and whistles only kids can hear
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And peacock feathers green and blue.
|
|
Deep depression in a walnut grain,
|
Afternoons on rainy days;
|
Once it stacked up well in both your brains,
|
And now it's all some purple haze
|
|
With vandals picking locks and breaking doors
|
And smashing keepsakes all around;
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Souvenirs of love and foreign shores
|
And scrapbook pages all unbound.
|
|
It's open house now for your fading heart,
|
Tell your ghost it's time to hide;
|
Strangers won't know when to stop and start
|
Once they've fin'ly got inside.
|
|
-----------------
|
Open House
|
| Steve Forbert |
