Let’s just say it, you were a criminal.
And I defended you, sat with you,
while no other family did. Mornings,
driving into Los Angeles to pick you up,
me with a pic line in my chest,
hidden down my arm, and you,
on the day of reckoning, standing
before your judge, are sentenced and sentenced.
Well, I was sentenced too, you see.
Your criminal acts were headlines,
red neon I faced. Lying is no longer an art.
It is the facts we live with, and years later
I find that the facts of you are still a burden,
are still the pills I swallow,
every night, every blessed night.
On to Pasadena I went, for no reason, but to drive.
10,000 Miles on the radio, the rocks may melt
and the seas may burn if I should not return.
But I do. The line’s removed. I live a thousand
more days, with no more headlines, neon
turned to cool blue, which is how I felt about you.