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Cannonball Statman
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Midnight in Kingston
Driving at night on the highway, eyes fixed on the road.
Someone told me just that night, it was hard to let things go.
I've been avoiding this feeling that nothing much was real;
we dance around in circles, then decide what really mattered.
And it's getting colder.
They were playin' some kind of music down the stairs the other night,
and I thought of you, or someone I knew.
And it's getting colder; they've been trying to put you away for awhile,
and now they finally have
(just another thing to worry about).
Driving at night on the highway, eyes fixed on the road.
Someone told me just that night, it was hard to let things go.
We dance around in circles, and soon, we pretend to feel.
We dance around in circles, and we know what really happened.
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And it's getting colder.
And you didn't know what to do about this little bit of jet lag,
but soon you'll forget, and remember again.
And it's getting colder; you'll meet all the most valuable poets
you've ever known, but couldn't see.
You'll wonder if they're real; and they will be, for just awhile.
Staring at you on the subway, nowhere much to go.
Nothing much to lose, except for everyone I know.
Midnight in Kingston, and I don't remember why.
Someone told me just that night, there was something after you died.
And it's getting colder; the days are getting shorter.
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