One fine day, you can lie in Allison's old bunk bed,
in Hell's Kitchen and watch a bottle of water rolling
down the street.
We'll be tripping at MSG, if Billy Joel makes it through
this, we'll be arm in arm with all our friends, I know most
of the words and I'll be singing and crying, for
he spent most of the pandemic sailing in
Oyster Bay and riding his motorbike in the rain and walking
round Bed-Stuy, alone.
Back at the Cloisters, who was pushing the daisies up at Allison's Garden,
and then years later who held you in your bear jacket in the
spit, was it better then, or before, A or B, slide this lens over the other one.
Who first planted the seed, was it a plan hatched at my 40th, so why months later
was I just sitting there, watching the children play with
a T-Rex projected on a wall at the American Museum of Natural History,
sighing, ah children.
Who was it that you're here, in Allison's bunk bed, whilst I rage before
the king at MSG, who didn't end the Cold War and isn't Springsteen either,
but he played his part so well and I'll be high to observe it.
