Images to think on, work to be done. A life to be lived.
Coffee at the end of the line, by the woods where the buses stop.
Where the angels weep for the death of a man long forgotten.
The history of a place in fading curtains and chipped cups.
We’ll always be here, the watching few, watching the visitors
walking past. Not caring who comes or goes. Le Patron knows
when we want another, money is tight and we have all day.
Time changes the world even if we don’t see it changing,
the patois, the hair and the skin, the colour of the sky.
I know the history, from this place to a bed for the night,
but I lost it all one year a while before and now I wait,
I talk to them all of course, Tout le client, pourquoi pas,
why wouldn’t I? I am after all this time, one of them.
I just got left behind that’s all, something happened one day
and I got a little out of time. I’m dislocated and can’t catch up.