As we drive down the avenue past ninety fourth street,
the distant mountains rush by, chasing what we leave.
We take down the highway, the winds be trippin' our smiles.
Not too far away, a thrift shop beckons my name.
Daisy lights weave by, they hum a lover's tune;
dream catchers cast a hunched shadow on the poor keeper's soul.
Behind his plain looks there's a story to be told,
one that is bare of kisses in the snow.
His eyes like buttons from thrown, misused shirts;
his ears roughly stitched apart, a tailor's shoddy work'
his lips cracked as plain jagged ends of my worn jeans;
but something about his talk keeps me raptured and sane.
His blue irises sparkle like dust in a flurry;
the way his ears fold like a dented piece of foil.
And boy when he chuckles, the bare night lurks into darkness.
I haven't seen quite a man in over sixteen years.
I just found my father in a thrift shop down the road.
