our father who art in a penthouse
  sits in his 37th floor suite
  and swivels to gaze down
  at the city he made me in
  he allows me to stand and
  sollicit graffiti until
  he needs the land I stand on
  I in my darkened threshold
  am pawing through my pockets
  the receipts, the bus schedules
  the matchbook phone numbers
  the urgent napkin poems
  all of which laundering has rendered
  pulpy and strange
  loose change and a key
  ask me
  go ahead, ask me if I care
  I got the answer here
  I wrote it down somewhere
  I just gotta find it
  I just gotta find it
    somebody and their spraypaint got too close
  somebody came on too heavy
  now look at me made ugly
  by the drooling letters
  I was better off alone
  ain't that the way it is
  they don't know the first thing
  but you don't know that
  until they take the first swing
  my fingers are red and swollen from the cold
  I'm getting bold in my old age
  so go ahead, try the door
  it doesn't matter anymore
  I know the weakhearted are strongwilled
  and we are being kept alive
  until we're killed
  he's up there the ice
  is clinking in his glass
  I don't ask
  I just empty my pockets and wait
  it's not fate
  it's just circumstance
  I don't fool myself with romance
  I just live
  phone number to phone number
  dusting them against my thighs
  in the warmth of my pockets
  which whisper history incessantly
  asking me
  where were you
    I lower my eyes
  wishing I could cry more
  and care less,
  yes it's true,
  I was trying to love someone again,
  I was caught caring,
  bearing weight
    but I love this city, this state
  this country is too large
  and whoever's in charge up there
  had better take the elevator down
  and put more than change in our cup
  or else we
  are coming
  up