hear the sounds of cars passing right outside my window
it's locked closed but air seeps through it's worn-down weatherstrip
that empty space, it leaves a crack
that's the way it goes.
he doesn't care if he's welcome
anyone will tell you that
permeating hidden spaces, buried deep in this old house
too hot in summer, too cold in winter:
extreme and uninvited.
try your hardest just to fight it
resist with air conditioning and manufactured heat.
fill that space with new air, breathing life into these rafters
but that old window can't be trusted
she'll let the bought air out
so now it's cold and I should've seen it coming
it's happened time and time again
the Indian summer is all too cunning
he'll have you believing he's a faithful friend.
when that October breeze wraps itself around you..
don't buy it. don't give in.
this tired game we play so often, I know it all too well.
he doesn't need an open the door, he much prefers creeping in
so batten your hatches and play pretend
tell yourself you're safe.
but wait.
boy you take the cake
I've made my share of mistakes
but you are-- by far-- my greatest disappointment
revving up, slowing down. that's the way it goes.
the problem with old houses...
all the old windows.
