the lion and the wolff made something out of a photograph

off the train/with the windows down,
living north of the crazy town.
i took all the noises outside to keep inside song,
stretched the thread on my sleeves for far too long.
painted smoke that withered the mass between my ears,
broke the foundation that had been motionless for years.
post-war stardom seems a thing of the past,
just because i waited in line don't mean i was last.
float accross the boroughs, between telephone lines,
i dance to the rhythm and snap my fingers in two-time;
cause when i bring to the table my life and heart, cold;
wives flinch at my skin, stories their fathers told

i never consciously tried to conceive of what [i] should be