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Once a week I make the drive two hours east
To check the Austin post office box
I make a detour through our old neighborhood
See all the Chevy Impalas and the front yards of bone blocks
And I park in an alley and I read through the postcards
You continue to send
Resumed directly as you can
You ask what I remember
I like these torture devices from my old best friend
Well, I'll tell you what I know, like I swore I always would
I don't think it's gonna do you any good
And I remember the train headed south out of Bangkok
Down toward the wall
I always get a late start when the sun's going down
The traffic's thinning out, the glare is hard to take
I wish the West Texas Highway was a Möbius strip
I could ride it out forever
And when I feel my heart break
I almost swear I hear it happen
It's clean and not hard
I come in off the highway and I park in my front yard
I fall out of the car like a hostage from a plane
And think of you awhile and start wishing it would rain
And I remember the train headed south out of Bangkok
Down toward the wall
I come into the house, put on a pot of coffee
Walk the floors a little while
Set your postcard on the table with all the others like it
Start sorting through the pile
I check the pictures and the postmarks and the captions and the stamps
For signs of any pattern at all
But when I come up empty-handed
Feeling all of those pills in my belly
I let a few of my defenses fall
And her smile, bitter smile, it's not a pretty thing to see
I think about her little blue platform back in 1983
And I remember the train headed south out of Bangkok
Down toward the wall
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