A young girl is sweeping dead bees and
cigar butts in the town square while the
last bus tonight is limping out of town
like a broke-dick dog,
and the head-light of a freight train
is giving us the stink-eye,
and there should be a new bottle
of Old Crow in that tackle-box
behind your seat.
So don’t feel too bad, kid,
life ain’t nothing but a circus of numbers
and time is just some grand old
abstract machinery they say makes
a faint ticking sound.
But I always thought that was the sound
of the grass growing.
– Jason Ryberg