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born a day apart we are here today, yesterday

but we are counting and the telephone rings

and we stop, on time, today again yesterday

and you ask how can this be and we go quiet

on time, listen to static, mosquitoes trapped

in flyscreens, smoke shifting decidual leaves

on time, on time, and you ask how can this be
so we sing who’ll come a-waltzing and we sing

john brown’s body and stars and spangles

and country too wide and sunburnt for any of us

while I dream of the city of angels and again you

call me the son of a godless convict, on time,

and the telephone rings and you ask about coyotes

and we glance at the clock, on time, always on time
and now if we were strapped in a jetliner careening

through new york skies and holding hands, cold

until we explode into shards of window glass

and aluminium and concrete-dusted filing cards

on time, this sun-struck morning, on time, last

fearful night and the telephone rings, on time

and you ask what date they will mark our epitaph