From the recording Celia Rose
Cars blink left turn, simultaneously, hearts beat
Underneath, the flashing of the
Heat wave, red light, hands are burning on the black wheel,
I’m choking as I sit here waiting, for the green light.
Bikers, joggers, free
To cross before me, no more driving, I repeat to myself
Sweating, sighing. I’m tired from the day
Men build houses, one is whistling at me
From the rooftop that the week before had not been standing
Oh it must be hotter on the rooftop
Underneath the burning sun.
These are people who have hands that become rough while they’re still young
They work until the sun has gone and then, begin again at dawn
Cleaning bathroom sinks, that’s where I met her,
In my high-school, she was always smiling
Though she worked all day and then went home alone
Garbage cans all full, they must be emptied
All the men who empty them in winter
Must be freezing cold, their jackets are so thin
Men and women sit on corners of the street
They beg me please, some money for some food
Don’t turn your back, my child’s going to die
I don’t know what’s true, who’s lying to me
Maybe they’re just drunk or high.
If I gave to all that asked me I’d be broke.
But those who work are good and honest people
Those who try are good and honest people
Those whose hands are rough are tougher than
The gold that makes the statue on his table
As he drowns in wealth, more money than he needs