FILE IT
The memories of the shells are an entry in the index of my mind
I can still look them up and pull them out
But they say I’m ‘morbid’, so I don’t
I can still smell Hannah’s perfume in the air and feel her hair on my cheek.
I could look her up, and pull her to me again
But they say I’m ‘past it’, so I don’t
Ted’s son runs the bike shop now, but he still tinkers now and then
I could look him up and go and get greasy with him
But they say I’m ‘too frail’, so I don’t
The bills come in and they file ‘em
The policies mature and they file ‘em
The telegrams arrive and they file ‘em
I’m going to get up in the morning, take a deep breath of fresh air in,
Blow the cobwebs out, clean the cogs out, get the old pump out, and let that deep breath run out.
I’m going up the hill to Ted’s tomorrow
And if they don’t like it they can ‘File It’!