In the red haze of the last
days
We’ve forgotten the fire,
the wheel
Like a phone booth in the
desert
It gets hard to find something
that’s real
Real -- like paper and matches
Real -- like cotton and
coal
Real as a voice when it
catches
As real as the highway,
as real as the toll
Though the romance is with
finance
And most make it their business
to lie
Over Times Square’s pulsing
nightmares
You can still snatch a glimpse
of a sky that’s
Real like dirt and like diamonds
Real like donuts and holes
Real like young Frankie
Lymon
As real as the piano
They dropped on his soul
Turn back, Jill, Jack
You don’t see
you don’t think
you don’t feel
Turn back, Jill, Jack
Turn back to the fire
Turn back to the steel
Turn back, turn back, turn
back to what’s ...
Real like laughing and crying
Real like secrets untold
Real as dying while trying
As real as the hunger, as
real as the cold
As real as the hunger, as
real as the cold
As real as the hunger, as
real as the cold
And as real as the dice
on your very last roll
© Heather Eatman, 1999
