Distant Stations
The Mountain Goats
I found an old rock in the dry dirt outside
The door of my motel room.
It was a triangle with soft rounded edges
And a split down the middle of one corner.
It was darker than english moss.
Green like the soft frills of a peacock's plume.
I waited for you, but i never told you where i was.
It was you who taught me how to write these kinds of equations.
I waited on the steps for you,
And i hid in the bushes whenever a car pulled into the parking lot.
You taight me how to listen to these distant stations.
Distant stations.
I saw the sky break.
I threw a rock at a crow who was playing in the mulch of some rose bushes by the motel office.
Missed him by a good yard or two.
I sang old songs from nowhere.
Los angeles.
Albuquerque.
I said a small prayer for the poor and the naked and the hungry.
And i prayed real hard for you.
I waited for you, but i never told you where i was.
It was you who taught me how to write this kind of equation.
I waited on the steps for you,
And i hid in the bushes whenever a car pulled into the parking lot.
You taight me how to listen to these distant stations.
Distant stations.