Slugged down thin beers (not as many I had hoped),
Found myself driving over the never-plowed snow
Of Johnstown, downtown – the 403, to be precise.
The rust was silent as I cursed at each stop light
And my words, they started spreading over the pines,
Down into the ancient basin of chained-to-there’s,
All made stolid by the flood, 1889.
I was leaving; again, I was going to be fine.
I looked slowly up to the night sky above me,
That morning I had watched a trial on my TV
Of a man who killed another man then he placed
The gun beneath the curves of his broad beaten face,
Didn’t fire, they found him sitting in peace.
No lawyer would go near him, they could sense the storm,
Said he should have pulled the trigger again, at least.
As a cozy star does its part to keep me warm,
The car slowly turned into a soft feather bed,
I turned on the stereo, heard mundane music, I read
Warnings on the backs of big trucks to help tick the miles
Off. I knew that it was going to be a long while
Til I saw the Pittsburgh lights wrap around the turn,
Til I would dart through the tunnel like a hot knife,
Til I was forced to lock my own car doors, I have learned
That I crave a constant fear always in my life.