| She grinds her hips |
| Maybe arches her back |
| There’s nobody there to see when she is doing that |
| The guy’s not there |
| He just doesn’t exist |
| She’s looking at empty space when she is doing this |
| She might walk home |
| She’s kind of tired |
| Or spend some of the money on a cab she’s hired |
| Below a bus groans by |
| And splashes a man |
| Who swears out a drunkard’s curse on the whole damned world |
| She smiles at that |
| And then starts to cry |
| She scrubs at a spot on her leg and then lets it dry |
| Then she’s sitting on the floor |
| With her head hung down |
| Listening to another language on TV |
| Unaware, hair unbound |
| Wondering where her mother and father might be |
| If she called, if she called |
| She dreams, she dreams |
| Don’t we all dream |
| A place, a way |
| A recurring theme |
| She remembers a time |
| When love was alive |
| Somehow it get’s lost in the sound of the city’s morning drive |
| Lost in the sound of the city’s roaring, morning drive |