SOME MAGICIAN WITH
AN EXTRA GLOVE
I'm drinking Brooklyn beer again
and it's all OK by me. Noises in
the night, nothing like that, bother
me now at all. It's the overload that
whistles, when the filters cut out.
That's all I hear, but I can't get mad.
It's the last thing I hear in the morning,
and first think I hear upon waking up.
Like they say in prison, 'Get used to it,
brother. It's now out of your control.
The last ghost rider I ever saw was just
a shadow dance playing out on a wall.
Some magician with an extra glove,
fooling around in the dead of night.