Hollywood Boulevard

 

 

For a long time, the way the floors shook in apartments,

made me want to jump out of my skin.

 

I remember the woman, who

lived above me in Los Angeles

was quiet, except sometimes

in the middle of the night,

she would put on Kenny Rogers and dance

until she put herself to sleep.

 

And a man in Squirrel Hill,

who I could hear downstairs,

weeping, at the end of the day,

like I was listening through water.

 

And a girl in Mount Washington,

who rose in the middle of the night

to stand in front of morning commuters

with a sign asking for money.

 

But, then I loved and almost married a girl in Pittsburgh,

who lived in an apartment with one blue wall.

And once, after making love, she pulled

her mattress out under the record player.

It was the end of summer and our hearts were broken.

It was the end of something else then too, but what it was I am still not sure.

She turned up the volume on Ray Davies playing Waterloo Sunset,

until you could feel the amplifier throb.

She lay with her knees pressed against her chest,

and her mother had died the month before

so her faded jeans and striped hung

on her body like she was disappearing,

I guess I looked too far into her face

because that girl was a house fire, man,

She was ivy growing a stone the comet burned.

I knew she was real, and I was real too.

So now, when I listen to people bang on the floor, I let it go,

I let them have their lives, and get lost in the radio.