Golden Week

By the middle of morning we've said our goodbyes And I've washed the wine from the water glasses And picking the porridge off both of the bowls That you bought for me fresh from the flight In the movement between the sponge and the steam Mostly I reach for the knife When the father and son meet the century's eye And the Cyndaquil toy in the boy's little hand Seems to dance to the beat of the station's theme song I'm asleep on the Hanzomon line If I look at myself, twenty-seven or twelve Fire was ever my type Entranced since my grandparents gave me my Gameboy Advance It's been three weeks since leaving my mom at the gate And I'm never quite sure if I'll see her again Cause her heart attack plays on a loop in my core And the tears that I wore on my face But the angels did speak at the Costa Coffee Hun, everything turns out okay On the train to Yoyogi, a new friend to meet In Golden Week Tokyo streets become very steep In the museums and galleries Salarypeople and salaries Redeploy Dogs wearing diapers and corduroys Sitting in strollers like baby toys Swallowed in sweaters in summer heat Tom says it's typical Yoyogi In Golden Week By the middle of morning I've written a song And, singing along, found a home for my fears In the outlet that unlike the ones in Japan Holds steady and strong to the wall In the minute between the day and the dream Mostly I don't dream at all