Down the street I'll park the car You go ahead Meet me inside There's no reason
for us to both go through with it On the way I'll call about this guitar Don't
want to sell, but I'm in the red Plus I just don't know what to do with it Had I

been more awake this morning I would have seen the coming warnings: The
calendar, the pens, Sunday on the phone again Today we'd stand alone with pines
Instaed of with produce, in endless lines How does preparation for the week

require the entire weekend? Shop for gloves among evergreens Long woolen skins
in unsubtle themes And entire season on a credit card Observing loves, rare
freindships seen manifest their greatest deeds With facing feet from numbered

dressing stalls The next time you say to me "This week's just a day too long"
Well your days are getting shorter, and as a gentle reminder Under boots tan
needles break Every Sunday I pray you'll see That you're doing this thing all

wrong Because down on the corner, among the pines Hopelessly small and still,
they defy the rake