It’s one thirty in the morning and I’m drinking alone
while two hundred people make noise
and smoke and drink and dance.
The band is good or loud, and wants to know
What did you think I would do at this moment?
There’s a blonde in a red dress sitting on the cigarette machine.
Not my type, I prefer quiet crazy,
the hidden neuroses that reveals itself over days or weeks
or maybe years, leaving me to wonder if I was the cause.
I got here way too late and I don’t have that kind of contagious madness
or a treatment for it.
I’ll let this one pass by.
Every man needs a friend named Tex,
Tex, the guy who pulls the blonde through the crowd and says,
“I want you to meet this guy, he’s a great friend of mine.”
Tex solves seven problems, none of which I had two seconds ago.
I’m ready to make an exception for whatever crazy she brought.
It’s ten minutes til close, too late for another drink.
I ask if she would like to get some breakfast.
Fifteen minutes later we’re in my car, but going nowhere.
Time to talk about kids and divorce and babysitters
without the music and smoke and a little cold air to clear the mind.
She is in a car with a man she has known twenty minutes.
The slow hand of reality pulls the parking brake lever to vertical.
She just wants to go home.
I take her phone number and watch her walk to the red car that matches her dress.
A phone number is better than nothing, or maybe more than nothing.
I think of breakfast alone, but there’s no hunger,
just a drive home and an empty bed.
The little red car turns ahead of me.
I sit at the light and watch her walk into the café.
The big windows and bright lights have no mercy
as everyone slides over to let her sit at the booth.
Couldn’t you have stayed crazy for just a little longer?