A Poet Walks

I walk the streets and hug the walls
I see a canal and think 'waterfalls'
And there are numbers, long-distance numbers I could call
And there are faces, long-distance faces
I can't recall, around here at all

I see the shops and I walk on by
My soup-stained vest, my critical eye
And given two choices, two clear choices, I take both
And there are secrets that I could tell but I won't, no I won't

I got a notebook and I got a light
My head is loose, my jacket's tight
A poet walks and the path is bright

And there are visions like a spell I can't break
I can't break, I can't break
A poet walks through the streets
Past canals and retreats and the fog
A poet walks, shits, and talks just a thought
A passing thought

To walk past all the loves that I've known
Past all the lives I've outgrown
The skin and the bone
To know every decision that I made was my own and pre-ordained
To roll up and to save