Once a week I make the drive
To the Austen post office box
I take the detour
Through our old neighborhood
See all the Chevy Impalas in their frontyards
Up on blocks
And I park in an alley
And I read through the postcards
You continue to send
Where as indirectly as you can
You ask what I remember
I like these torture devices
From my old best friend
Well I'll tell you what I know
Like I swore I always would
I don't think it's going to do you any good

I remember the train
Heading south out of Bangkok
Down toward the water

I always get a late starte
When the sun's going down
And the traffic's thinning out
And the glare is hard to take
I wish the West Texas highway
Was a mobius strip
I could ride it out forever
When I feel my heart break
I almost swear I hear it happen
It's that clear and that hard
I come in off the highway
And I park in my front yard
I fall out of the car
Like a hostage from a plane
Think of you a while
Start wishing it would rain

And I remember the train
Headed south out of Bangkok
Down toward the water

I come into the house
Put on a pot of coffee
Walk the floors a little while
I set your postcard on a table
With all the others like it
I start sorting through the pile
I check the pictures and the postmarks
And the captions and the stamps
For signs of any pattern at all
When I come up empty handed
The feeling almost overwhelms me
I let a few of my defenses fall
And I smile a bitter smile
It's not a pretty thing to see
I think about a railroad platform
Back in 1983

And I remember the train
Headed south out of Bangkok down
Down toward the water