West Virginia USA
Steamboat on the ocean, misfit to time. Love me like no other, baby, there is no rhyme. Believe me, I know our anachronistic past, and I understand how love can drop you from the passenger list just like that.
All aboard before the steam runs out, the pressure fades, and the current the current dissipates. All aboard, baby for one last ride—harbor to river to ocean above and beyond the silver horizon.
Misfit baby, we fit we know that. Time and space are a space-time of lost and found dreams.
All aboard, baby, hear that whistle sound, hear that whistle sound.
Amtrak to carry us to work and back. Ah, the simplicity of the wheels in silver and the sound of us in sync with our time—rhythm of the rails, hum of the motion, no place to go but in a long line from A to B, which is our life, baby. The A to B of morning and night, work and time off, love and indifference. Here we are, baby, Amtraking our way into and out of the day as time goes by faster than the wheels on the rails and the sun going down, down, down.
Keep the faith, baby. What else is there to hang on to? What else defines us—the stars, the blue sky, the dark night? What, baby—tell me now. We have it all, they say. The house is impressive—large and brick and cold, cold, cold. Anyone who sees it thinks it is a home. But we know, don’t we, baby? We know. It’s much too quiet here when the evening sun goes down.
What is there to say? Hold on, baby—this is not the best or the worst of it. It just is—plain, simple, unvarnished, simple-dimple like a cherry pie. Isn’t that what love is, baby? The sweetness that is promised ‘til death do us part? Sweet enough to eat—you betcha. But things change—just look around you. See the ravages of time? Time is a subtle thief, and you and I have been robbed blind, haven’t we, baby? Now time takes its leave of us, and time leaves us—
separate but equally lonely lives wondering where did it all go. Like a carnival, baby? The lights are on, the calliope plays, but the rides don’t work. What do we do with the tickets now? The tickets grow cold in our hands as we wait, wait, and wait some more. That’s faith, baby, that the rides will start again and the ticket booth will never close.
A big gold SUV, the vacation we have promised ourselves. We are packed up—red Samsonites almost blocking our rear view. We have a cooler, too, with Cokes and Diet Dr. Pepper and all the deviled eggs you can eat on a four-hour ride through the autumn country side. Tell me you love me, baby, and hand me a chicken wing. I made those special for you with the chipotle sauce you like—hot, hot, spicy hot—just for you, baby. When you’re done with the wings, give me a kiss and make my lips burn with all that pepper sauce. You know I love you, baby. I keep the faith. I’ve got my ticket. There’s more to hope for in loving you than to regret. You know that, don’t you, baby? Ah, baby, don’t look so sad.