Dave
© 1991 by Joe Strell
Dave is at peace with the world.
He's got a girl.
They have a child and a house of their own.
They're building a home,
And that's fine...
But I don't know him anymore.
We used to lie on the rooftops at night and gaze at the sky and the airplanes in flight en route to the airport and far away. We'd drink lemonade and ice tea from cans and shiver in blankets with time on our hands to throw to the winds and talk of such things.
But I don't know him anymore.
We used to walk through the city to the beach with the meaning of life gently out of reach. It had to do with dishwashers, and having to die. At night while the city slept we laughed and endless coffee kept us busy defining mankind with the Time's crossword puzzle as the sun rose over the lake and our words began to slow down.
But I don't know him anymore.
We used to sit on my carpet and eat lousy frozen pizzas right out of the oven that we bought at a convenience store somewhere on Clark Street. Into the evening we'd play and we’d sing, listening in the dark to the sound of freedom ringing in our ears in the silence between songs.
But I don't know him anymore.
Dave is at peace with the world.
He's got a girl.
They have a child and a house of their own.
They're building a home,
And that's fine...
But I don't know him anymore.
