ALBUM: THE KEYHOLE DESK CORUN Climbing Corun, takes work to get up that hill Climbing Corun, last left before the old mill Climbing Corun’s harder than down At full speed away from Jefferson town One bridge then two bridge then three bridge and home At night it gets spooky if you go alone You can see the deer bones by the side of the road You can smell them sometimes as they start to corrode Country kids they grow up with that knowledge That seasons they change and hunters chase deer that frolic At the base of the hill is Lewis Mill Branch Where the water is shallow and shiny like glass Suds in the water, the gleam of hard metal, Bikers and hogs and their refusal to settle, Burly beards, sunglasses, chromium teeth You never saw two girls Pedal so scared and so fleet From there to Broad Run to the elementary school Is a hill, then a wide space, and then learning The post office, butcher, the place where men drink, The highway is off the left turning. You go through the tunnel and more worlds appear Instead of the three and a half miles you fear Are the run around the whole of your world You’ve run around the whole of the world It’s just a story over pizza you share with Kelli Jo Who had babies so young you don’t even know There’re no pat answers except you just don’t live here With the slow moving farm trucks, the geese and the beer Some wild animals get scared by the highways Some girls find their season, their reason for treason They climb Corun hill, just by the old mill To Broad Run and beyond And run broad THE THINGS YOU LEFT BEHIND After the call we came running But we all knew it was too late The speed of it all was stunning And the shock of it was too great Then came the calls, the sympathy notes The morbid routine and the people who gloat The sudden reminders, the frequent goodbyes When cleaning the house small things make us cry You should be there Like the Duncan Phyfe chair Like the lamp over there So ugly but we didn’t mind You should be there Like your scent in the air The perfume you’d wear And the things you left behind The thing of it is, it’s the absence It’s the echo and silence and hole We expect you just round the corner We keep thinking it’s you on the phone Then we remember and then we feel bad The awkward reminders, the suddenly sad And worse, the sharp edges are wearing away The worst part of grief is you know it won’t stay GRANDMOTHER CLOCK It sat in the Philly Main Line house, an oak-bound polished tower It bonged and rang and chimed and sang punctually each hour Sometimes it sang thirteen o’clock, a time that’s not quite real Even clocks can get confused when time is there to steal Listen, clock, you tickertock, you think you’re marking time But you are wrong, you just cannot, ‘cause time always unwinds Your dials spin and turn the moons, seasons change is coming soon Let’s see the movement that your long-case coffin hides As a boy it was father’s job to wind the clock, he said to me A Sunday job for Sunday boys with hair slicked back and clean A handy crank into a slot, and a massive privilege you see Custody of time itself, handling of the three-lobed key Chorus It came from grandma’s house to his, from him on to me I had to call a clock guy to break it down and get it clean Turned out we shared some classes, back when we were kids Didn’t remember our own faces, though, funny how that is We saw the pencil marks of horologists long dead Written on the oak inside, a record of the things they did Finials are loose, the wood could use a wax And we’ll need to be real careful with it as the old oak cracks Truth is, I’m not real sure how I’ll feel about chimes on the hour Another reminder of what we lose, from another coffin tower Another job, to turn a crank, to keep springs wound up tight When everything gets lost to time memories never run quite right Chorus Before you chime midnight OLD TEETH Found ‘em in the keyhole desk, wrapped in ancient gauze Not the sort of surprise one expects from one’s in-laws The note was written on parchment, spidery hard to read It said “found hidden inside this desk in 1823.” No one would touch them, they were slightly gross I figure someone kept them for the sake of gold Old teeth, rotten and gold Green edges and gnashers bold Saved perhaps for emergencies It’s not a problem I’ve considered before As a part of our family lore What should we do with these old teeth? Based on all the crowns and fillings shining in the enamel breaks Whoever had them once had mighty bad toothaches I might pull them out as curios to horrify guests on winter afternoons To get the quizzical theories and shivers of the tomb I might hide them back inside the desk again A treasure rediscovered now and then Back to the desk, back to the drawer Sit alongside the photos and more The furniture with its secrets The secrets with their storylines Each story with its people We are links in the chain of time Old teeth, rotten and gold Green edges and gnashers bold Saved perhaps for emergencies Old teeth, strange and alive Chattering madly of times gone by And other centuries It’s not a problem I’ve considered before As a part of our family lore What should we do with these old teeth? THE FOX LADY The fox lady wants to have all the land The fox lady wants it all in her hands She’ll take all the farms, put back all the rocks She’ll smooth all the tilling and turn back the clock She’ll pay through the nose to plant all the trees So foxes and deer and snakes can run free They’ll keep a part modern, for comity’s sake A portion organic, a pretend farm, that’s fake They’ll sponsor the pottery and the quilters and such And sell all their kale, acai berries and mulch They’ll preserve all it was in a museum With photos of farmers tucked where you can’t see ‘em Chorus The farm was chopped up, to tract homes and mansions The tractors went silent and show horses went prancing Fences and hedgerows turned TV dish receivers The yards are all full of golden retrievers And now she cleans up, the fox lady does And turns it all back into woods, creeks and mud It’s not that the goals aren’t noble, they are I want grass fed beef and less pollution from cars The foxes need saving and the bees are all dying The oceans are rising and the oil men are lying But here calloused hands once tore stumps from the ground I can mourn all kinds of life that are no longer around Was it all for nothing? The babies & blood? The mortgages and hard times, trying to be good? Sometimes I wonder what marks we’re meant to leave What kind of things are appropriate to grieve I love to see the deer at night, the fox deserves a home Every place is someone else’s home overthrown Chorus Run free RATION BOOKS You got these ration books, all unclaimed Nothing in them but the stuff that you saved Yellowed paper eaten away In the desk with the secret doors You got these gasoline stamps, never used Thirsty gas tanks and clutches abused A tin of powdered milk to pay your dues And a war bond for keeping score You coulda had a richer time Yeah you could had a richer time You coulda spent your nickels and dimes On the war going on at home You got the piece of paper saying DUI You got a half empty bottle of rye You’ve got to be wondering why Your life can’t handle no more You got your model trains and your hunting guns You got your old guitars and lodge ribbons But your kid turns away when you call her hon So what was it all for? You coulda had a richer time Yeah you could had a richer time You coulda spent your nickels and dimes On the war going on at home You got the baby pictures all tucked away You got confederate dollars, gold pieces of eight Maybe it’ll all be worth something some day You’re rationed to the core You coulda had a richer time Yeah you could had a richer time You coulda spent your nickels and dimes On the war going on at home You coulda had a richer time… DOLL PARTS Doll parts in the creepy trunk Dust and dank and crumbled Leaking powder from their limbs Baby dreams now humbled Eyes are twisted looking south Embroidered tiny clotheses Fingers grasping nothing much Smiles and snub noses The trunk perhaps it traveled, all around the world German rivers, London docks, a New York City whirl Leather stout handles and brass bound corners off to see the sights Now it stands in bedroom corners keeping secrets dry Third grade report cards piled deep All for family now dead Yellowed photos unfamiliar Cut off at the head Random stuff, scissors, coins A cardboard Planters peanut Filled with seashells from a beach We have never seen but Chorus The trunk it moved from house to house Holding minor history No one ever opened it Until it came to this day When houses are all emptied out And old toys are left behind This may be the junk of lives But this junk is family of mine Chorus This trunk is family of mine THE PIN-UP GIRLS Look at all these pictures, all of naked ladies Hidden in a brown folder all wrapped up quite plainly We found them in the keyhole desk, no names were on the edges Part of a portfolio right beside the ledgers Did they pose for husbands? Did they pose just for themselves? Were these meant as memories Of when they felt young and swell? They didn’t get pinned up on the walls Not these ladies, prim in hats and shawls How many of those old stern faces Had a wink, a nod and pics in private places? And what about the camera man? Was his hand quite steady? Slipped a note after the wedding, was he always ready? Photographing families and smiling happy children And after hours developing pics of naked women? Hiding underneath black hoods Hearing flash bulbs pop Adjusting draperies and hair Exposures and F stops Chorus There is no embarrassment, none of the looks are bored They challenge you across the years, chins upturned, this secret hoard They dare you to disapprove, these girls forever young Great grandmas perhaps by now, half-lidded eyes and lips bee-stung Some prints, they battled at the front, bravely off to war Or maybe they didn’t go and stayed in the boudoir We really have no way to know why they posed this way We only know them mute as they flirt and sashay Did they think of this as art? Did they blush and tingle? Did they try to titillate And was this lady single? They can’t be pinned down on the walls Not these ladies in their hats and shawls With winks and nods and pics in private places Grandmothers are really complicated Grandmothers are really complicated SCRAPPLE AND CREAM GRAVY Sausage made from Bambi That the hunter shot himself It’s eatin’ time in Frederick County And gosh we’re eating well The tea, unsweet, the coffee black Though maybe with a little splash The chips are Utz like God intended And there’s garlic in the mash Scrapple and cream gravy Chipped beef and berry pie Picking crab and Old Bay seasoning Oh Lord I cannot lie The beef’s grassfed on our acres Root cellar held the milk The brambles gave the blackberries So go on and eat your fill The plates are heaped with veggies The water’s from the well It’s hard as heck, it’s got that tang And it is cold as hell Chorus Apple butter canned by hand Spread on biscuits ain’t that grand This is the bounty of the land Say grace and eat before you die Chorus Pound of butter, pound of sugar Pound of flour, by and by Six of this, half dozen of the other A pound cake here for you to try Jars are stacked up in the pantry Don’t dare sneak off to Mickey D’s Don’t insult your mamma’s cooking Eat leftovers, if you please Chorus Say grace and eat before you die THE GOOD OLD DAYS Now, we hear the old records play Vinyl scratches and tape delay Then remember how they used to sway Dancing to the music come what may Time went by and time went on Nothing ever really lasts for long Pretty soon they shared no songs We remember when it still seemed strong Before the harmonies went wrong When they were still in love The good old days, as music plays We hold on to what we know Will our love be outweighed By what comes afterwards Our good old days, already gone Grown familiar like a song Memories left of better times When we were still in love We can still be in love Maybe she cooks and cleans Maybe he sits and daydreams Maybe nothing is at is seems And no one knows what it all means The record’s hand has now come off Silence in the rooms where you grew up But the operas and musicals hang in the air Bossa nova smiles and 50’s flair And we remember those good old days When they were still in love When they were still in love LAST DRIVE FROM HOME The lights are on a timer So people think someone’s there But when they dim at six o’ clock No one’s home to care The trash has all been gathered The floors are spic ‘n’ span I even tossed those lamps I hated Just because I can This time, there’s no home to go back to This time, I left the keys in the door I know as I go past the streets I grew up on I won’t make this drive anymore Last time on this highway Last time at this traffic light Remember when they put it in Small town having a bright night As the farms give way to condos and parks As the city stretches out its fingers in the dark I know it was disappearing anyhow Suburban commuters don’t live next to cows… but I’ll miss this faded road sign The gravesites on the left I left my mother there this year The last drive on which I wept This time, there’s no home to go back to This time, I left the keys in the door I know as I go past the streets I grew up on I won’t make this drive anymore I won’t make this drive anymore MOONLIGHT DECIDES After the light finally dies The sun takes to bed and the moonlight decides We’ll have to wonder what dances there might Be under cover of night The farm torn apart, the blackberries wild, The basement with leaks and the singleton child, The foxes that sneak and the snow that is piled On the road under cover of night There are still hands that hold you There’s still the words that I told you There’s still the hillside, the tree silhouette Our breath in the air and the ground feeling wet And the moonlight decides Sometimes the photos can be taken out And we’ll laugh and we’ll cry and without a doubt We’ll know how hard it’s been to do without Her voice under cover of night No one is saying you have to forget But the door needs to close with time and regret We have other roads, we have to set Forth under cover of night But these are my hands that hold you These are the words that I told you Sit on my hillside, the tree overhead Rest on my shoulder your mourning head And the moonlight decides Think of how she once lullabied And how you now croon to your own sad child These are links in the chain of sacrifice Night upon dawn upon night Yes, we know that tomorrow will be dawning bright Mornings dance with the cover of night Those are your hands that hold her These are words that you told her Grow up by my side, tree sturdy strong You won’t in the end have me for as long As the moonlight decides