Speeding Down the FDR

Dressing himself in the cab for one room then another.
The new fame on the radio playing—past the cathedrals,
toward the young graves after that.
In the dusk, they sold flowers to everyone
stopped at our red light. In this life you’re far.
Like the sun appears to the water when late.
All those people you see, all the hallways you drink in;
through tunnels and traffic—you might wear a tie,
you might keep your shoes on forever today.
Let them photograph your soul, says Jimmy.
Memorize your alleys, take yourself back home.
Already we’re here and already we’re through it.
The toll’s blinking wildly at you.
They’ll stop you from smoking indoors, they’ll arrest you.
But no one can stop you from kissing the wrong kind of men.
Up ahead, a police car lights up like a kids fair.
The phone in my hand won’t keep still.
Maybe it’s you and you’re driving the wrong way;
a feeling you hailed once.
Something to steer you toward me then away.
If the shirt’s fitted well, ten blocks and it’s off you.
If the light starts to bother, let it grow darker still.
I was speeding down the FDR one night,
it was August and heavy.
I am speeding down the FDR tonight,
it is April and dead. Who would drive himself away?
There’s a stranger who’s doing it for me.
Who would drive herself below?
Like a bath in street clothes.
Eyes on the throat, money counted to zero.
And everyone’s cleaned up like heaven.
Believe it. Everyone’s dressed down for hell.