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The book was dull.
I took it with me for a walk.
Guys at "The Station"
thought I was being a jerk.
All I said was it’s hard to read in the dark.
Should have gone to "The Edge"
or "The Snit," any of the sad bars around.
I wasn't picky.
I almost got my ass kicked.
People are touchy about their looks
Especially around a guy with a book.
But his look
wasn't dull. Or so I thought. I want to paint you, man,
the young stud said,
dragging his hand in the dust.
You're a painter?
I had a paint set as a kid
but no friends to play with.
Left it in the closet
where mother threw stuff
I’d stopped using ‘til I became skilled:
Golf clubs, a fiddle, a mitt, and so on.
I never found my little brush.
Everything was fine, until my parents said
I should leave. She’d help me pack my bags
as long as I didn’t disturb my father. He
was too busy shouting
until we were old enough to know why.
He grew a beard, wore rings on every finger,
and ate napkins dipped in vinegar.
When I took off,
they sounded like I’d committed treason,
but I know they knew the reason.
I miss them every time the sun goes down
and I play pinball in my head.
Book and I’d just as well be left alone as I told them at “The Station.”
We lean on each other when I walk home.
Aren’t books funny?
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