Standard (EADGBE)

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Once a week I make the drive

two hours east to check the Austin post office box.

I take the detour through our old neighborhood,

 see all the Chevy Impalas in their front yards up on blocks,

 and I park in an alley and I read through the postcards

 that you continue to send:

 where as indirectly as you can you ask what I remember.

 I like these torture 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 gonna do you any good:

 I remember the train headed south out of Bangkok down toward the water.

I always get a late start,

 when the sun's going down

 and the traffic's thinning out

 and the glare is hard to take. I wish the

West Texas highway was a Möbius strip --

 I could ride it out forever. When I feel my heart break,

 I almost swear I hear it happen, it's that 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 and

 start wishing it would rain.

I remember the train headed south out of Bangkok down toward the water.

 I come into the house,

 put on a pot of coffee,

walk the floors a little while.

I set the postcard on a table with all the others like it,

start sorting through the pile.

I check the pictures and the postmarks

 and the captions and the stamps

 for signs of any pattern 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 -- it's not a pretty thing to see --

 I think about a railroad platform back in 1983

and I remember the train headed south out of Bangkok down toward toward

the water