Text: Mountain Goats, The. Source Decay.

once a week

i make the drive

two hours east

to check the

austin post office box

and i take the detour

through our old neighborhood

see all the

chevy impallas

in their front yard up on bolcks



and i park

in a alley

and i read through the postcards you

continue to send

where as indirectly as you can

you ask what i remember

i like these tourture devices

from my old best friend



well i'll tell you what i know

like i swore i always would

i don't think it's going to do you

any good



i remember

the train headed south outta bangkok

down toward

the water



i always get a late start

when the suns going down

and the traffic's thinning out

and the glare is hard to take

i wish the west texas highway

was a mobius strip

i could ride it out forever

when i feel my heart break

i almost swear I hear it happen

is the clear and that hard

i come in off the highway

and i park in my front yard

i fall out of the car

like a hostage from a plane

think of you a while

start wishing it would rain



and i remember

the train headed south outta bangkok

down toward

the water



i come into the house

put on a pot of coffee

walk the floors a little while

i set your post card on the table

with all the others like it

i start sorting through the pile

i check the the pictcure

and the postmarks

and the captions and the stamps

for signs of any patern at all

when i come up empty handed

the feeling almost overwhelms me

i let a few of my

defenses fall

and i smile a bitter smile

not a pretty thing to see

think about a raileroad platform

back in nineteen eighty three



and i remember

the train headed south outa bangkok

down

down toward

the water