Music echoes and fades,
Rising and receding like ocean waves.
There is always smoke,
A perpetual haze,
Like taping cotton balls over my eyes.
Tom Waits is crooning in the back
Reminding me of footfalls on gravel.
Oh, here I go,
Letting nostalgia carry me away
Like I was some modern Scarlett O’Hara.
Animated silhouettes in the smoke,
It’s eleven, and I shouldn’t be here.
No one minds, I’m my father’s daughter,
And my father is their golden boy.
Fifty cents in hand,
And I’m gonna hear some music,
Even if it kills me.
They shout something like,
“Get Theo on tha’ box, white girl.”
Telling me my father’s a fan,
That my father’s got soul.