My grandmother catalogued
The contents of the icebox
Sure that there’s a meal
To be made from what was in there
She offered us an orange
For the seven days of aftershocks
Dressed up in our best clothes
With the powder in our hair

It sticks in the throat
It sticks in the throat
I tried to run, but it runs on remote

The blonde girls in midtown board
The express for the east side
I stare for lack of purpose
Knowing you are far and gone
I slept through my stop
And disembarked to make a joyride
Brighton beach and russian baths
And hudson river dawn

It sticks in the throat
It sticks in the throat
I tried to run, but it runs on remote

My grandmother listens
To the men in conversation
Sure that there’s a reason
To be silent and be still

Table turned and jacket torn
In ancient observation
All of us in black against the February chill
I am at the window with my feet up on the sill