Texty: The Mountain Goats. Distant Stations.

i found an old rock in the dry dirt outside
the door of my motel room.
it was a triangle with soft rounded edges
and a split down the middle of one corner.
it was darker than english moss.
green like the soft frills of a peacock's plume.
i waited for you, but i never told you where i was.
it was you who taught me how to write these kinds of equations.
i waited on the steps for you,
and i hid in the bushes whenever a car pulled into the parking lot.
you taight me how to listen to these distant stations.
distant stations.

i saw the sky break.
i threw a rock at a crow who was playing in the mulch of some rose bushes by the motel office.
missed him by a good yard or two.
i sang old songs from nowhere.
los angeles.
albuquerque.
i said a small prayer for the poor and the naked and the hungry.
and i prayed real hard for you.
i waited for you, but i never told you where i was.
it was you who taught me how to write this kind of equation.
i waited on the steps for you,
and i hid in the bushes whenever a car pulled into the parking lot.
you taight me how to listen to these distant stations