There was a man whose memories were made up,
Of nothing.
He pushed the elevator button, and go home,
To nothing.
Yes his business had prospered but women get lonely sometimes, now she has the
house
His son in college had dropped out,
To expand his mind.
And Sarah, his daughter had not spoken to him.
Maybe heâd raised her the wrong way.
He wondered.
He checked his mailbox, with fingers a-tremblinâ
No mail, from anyone.
âIâm homeâ he said softly, as he opened the door
and gazed at his empty apartment.
Aching, thinking.
Southbound jericho parkway
Is what you call a one-way street.
Southbound jericho parkway
Is what you call a one-way street.
At 7.20, monday after New Year,
Mister Henry Johnson leaned against the pedal
Aimed his Lincoln steady and drove himself into a wall.
How could a thing sush as this ever happen.
All the community said it was shame.
He was a good man,he was a clean man. yeah,
that was it: he was a good, clean man
And his landlady said he was an exemplary tenant.
Theyâre always nice and quiet when theyâre all alone
At his age.
The young man sat, on a small woven mat.
While the silken smoke it cirlcled over head.
The cigarettes were there to prove he didnât care
âBout the contents of the telegram heâd just read.
Father, father, father.
You always seemed to be so out of reach.
And the psychedelyc sign read: peace.
Apartment in New York, a girl closes the door,
And leans against it with her head bowed low.
Thoughts raced through her mind
Of when she was a child.
Raised warmly by a man she didnât know.
Father, father, father.
She wished she had phoned him yesterday
There were so many things she had to say
Henry, the check is in my hands
Brought by the insurance man to cover all my plans
Weâll have flowers, your broker will be there
And Sarah, if she cares, and our boy with all his hair
And the sun rose,and the sunset
As it always has,
And people yet unknown, were busy being born,
And time when past.
