Water Tower

Night under the water tower. Something goin' on up the street.
There are flashing lights, sirens—the whole area blocked off
to thru traffic. And I think I hear screaming for some reason.
In the dark, the big blue water tower up over Garfield feels like
it's some sort of artifact lending hints to the origin of the moon.
And the light pouring out of the windows of houses on the hill
might be the visible hearts of people from an underground city.
Guitars and amplifiers and effects-pedals are stringing together
an outer space type of music that the neighbors are noticing—
new songs are being created in small bedrooms and basements
of row houses on alleys with names like Almond and Decision.
Down the hill, the long hallways of shotgun apartments lean to
the street as if the years have conjured a desire in them to leave.
And all the stars in the night sky just beyond the streetlights are
a new history or a slow fire that are most likely dead on arrival.
We may never know what it is that's happening up the street—
what new dark gravity is taking hold. Could be that someone
got a little careless letting the devil out. But we stay on, keep
inhabiting this space. I don't know what others are looking for
moving to places that are not here. The mountains are pretty,
but I don't need the mountains—I have the clouds and rivers.
I have the tunnels and the bridges. And anyway—how do you
expect to get anywhere when you never stay in the same place?

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