A Park In Chicago

It was the crank of the chain

That sent rust to my fingertips

I smoked it slower

But always to the line

We pretended it was 1998

And we were Wynona Rider voodoo dolls

I placed pins in your elbows

I'm sorry

But I had to see you dance

If it wasn't for the buttered rum in my nose

I'd have forgotten to look up

To see green against gray

Looking at the streams of unlikely pigments molding like windowsill cacti 

I have a feeling... it will all be okay