I go down to the Parkway, the parking lot desert
to bother myself with premiums and credit
pneumonia, bronchitis, seizures and pills
she's asking me questions to find out what ills
bills are bi-monthly, make payments with checks
these we will send to your home address
in come the phone calls, interrupting my thoughts
she's asking me questions of which none apply
to healthy young men with years in their eyes
and I sigh, knowing full well my time will come
with paintings of pictures and faces undone
this is your life, this is your life, this is your life,
the sound of a gun
I go down to the bank to take out my money
she sits at her desk, her suit coat looks funny
brown haired, answering calls and pulling out paper
can I help you, she asks, I hand her a slip
would you like an account, she asks, moving papers with clips
I say no, I am moving a cashiers check please I prefer
she goes to the back to print numbers on paper
I tell her it's fine; I'm on my way these are games,
pieces of puzzles and places we play
offices, paperwork, pens, procedures in place
I only want time to wander and pace
these routines and distractions, expressions of grace
I sit down within walls to watch the debate
Al and George with podium postures and fate
numbers and questions from faces decisive
taxes, turrets, treatments, teachers and soldiers defensive
you've nothing but numbers in your flaming head
you've nothing but money where you were instead
preaching prosperity and claims of pending disgrace and doom
we will need more than words and answers to fill up this room
your face it is twitching, toll takers counting and adding the odds
paying with numbers and praising the gods
night upon night the changes take place
these that we know, please keep the pace