you make tuesdays too much

I was happy that someone had
a destination so I could blink along to
the soft lights of incomplete combustion,
all the houses passing by shared
the same few numbers and look
like they belong on cereal box
or left in an ocean of parking lots.
Your keychain's empty rings couldn't get you
much to pawn, so you took your doctors
orders and then sold them to the law.

I told my friend the driver to pull over
and let me off -
"I think I hear a jukebox
sounding a dollar light somewhere".

They tell you to mind the moment
when lonesome turns into songs,
when stories turn into stones
and when nowheres turn into homes.
Everybody talks about wine and jailbreaks
and you bent the universe back with
your eyes closed or maybe we were
upside down.

Revolutions on record players and the magic of gin
and tonight I'm fragile as pencil shavings and
I don't know where to begin.

Wild static whispers and time is out of luck
you always make Tuesdays far too much