Once a week
I make the drive
two hours east
to check the Austin post office box
And I take the detour
through our old neighborhood
See all the Chevy Impalas
in their front yards up on blocks
And I park in an alley
And I read* through the postcards you continue to send
Where as indirectly as you can
You ask what I remember
I like these torture devices from my old best friend
Well, I'll tell you what I know
like I swore I always would
I don't think it's gonna do you any good
I remember the train headed south out of Bangkok
Down toward the water
I always get a late start
when the sun's going down
and the traffic's thinning out
and the glare** is hard to take
I wish the west Texas highway was a Möbius strip
I could ride it out forever
when I feel my heart break
I almost swear I hear it happen
It's that clear and that hard
I come in off the highway and I park in my front yard
I fall out of the car
like a hostage from a plane
Think of you a while
Start wishing it would rain
And I remember the train headed south out of Bangkok
Down toward the water
I come in to the house
Put on a pot of coffee
***Walk the floors a little while
I set your postcard on the table
with all the others like it
I start sorting through the pile
I check the pictures
and the postmarks^
and the captions
and the stamps
for signs of any pattern at all
When I come up empty-handed
the feeling almost overwhelms me
I let a few of my defenses fall
And I smile a bitter smile
It's not a pretty thing^^ to see
I think about a railroad platform back in 1983
And I remember the train headed south out of Bangkok
Down, down toward the water