wendy had a way of making men want to stay, a chemical appeal and low-cut dresses. she accepted lonely married men and their wandering caresses.
ellen was a good wife, the kind you keep for life. she wore comfortable clothes but she could still turn heads. every night she checked on the kids and coaxed her sleepy husband to bed.
it was a small town, things got around, so ellen knew that wendy had a way with men. but rumors never mattered to ellen so she had no problem calling her a friend.
and wendy said to ellen “can you spare some self-esteem? make me think that I am better than this woman I seem to be?” and ellen said to wendy “oh I wish I could but I need all that I’ve got to be me.”
well wendy knew she had to go, some of her lies were starting to show. so she packed up her trailer and drove away last july. she left ellen her good blue dress and when ellen wears it now ellen’s husband thinks he might just break down and cry.
day in, day out I fill the shoes I wear. I meet the expectations of those who care. but something in the evening makes me want to cry. please take me to paris or I’ll die. please take me to paris or I’ll die.
I long for the days when things were what they seemed, when I was little more than a boy scout’s dream. cause now life seems like a complicated lie. please take me to paris or I’ll die. please take me to paris or I’ll die.
chains of social obligations, dull decisions and deadlines. everyone wants you to say you’re fine, but I need a glass of good red wine.
someday, somehow, I’ll find a way to go, if not with you, some wealthy man who I hardly know. I practice daily saying my goodbyes. please take me to paris or I’ll die. please take me to paris or I’ll die.
the lady down the street from me is finally going to move. she’s moving to a town where the children look the same. they dress the same and talk the same and might as well be her own. she won’t have to worry now ’bout who her kids bring home. I just hope she’s able to tell them all apart at the table, in the garden, in her fearful heart.
there’s always been a lot to be afraid, of there’s always been a reason to run. there’s always been a lot to be afraid of, like tv and guns and never finding love, like airplanes and fame and not saving up enough. there’s always been a reason to run.
a guy I know is dying in an unpopular way. there’s nothing poetic about his impending end. it’s been a couple of years now of pulling down the shades. and fewer and fewer visitors come to see his beauty fade. I just hope that those who can’t find the time to come find that when their time has come, what is done is done.
there’s always been a lot to be afraid of, there’s always been a reason to run. there’s always been a lot to be afraid of, like bad guys and ignorance and losing things you love, like politics and drugs and not looking good enough. there’s always been a reason to run
there’s a woman on a city street hovering above a subway grate. life has been cruel but not as cruel as the passersby. she had children and a former life of law-abiding days, but somewhere she lost a chance, lost her grip, lost her way. if fear were only coins she’d be well-fed, warm and dry, just from her own logical fear of everyone rushing by.
there’s always been a lot to be afraid of, there’s always been a reason to run. there’s always been a lot to be afraid of, like enemies and death and unrequited love, like midlife and heights and judgment from above. there’s always been a reason to run.
there’s always been a lot to be afraid of, there’s always been a reason to run. there’s always been a lot to be afraid of, like tv and guns and never finding love and airplanes and fame and not saving up enough and bad guys and ignorance and losing things you love and politics and drugs and not looking good enough and enemies and death and unrequited love and midlife and heights and judgment from above, like fear itself and the past and forgetting how to love. there’s always been a reason. you can always find a reason. there’ll always be a reason to run.
I went down to visit the fountain of youth. spanish moss was hanging from every tree. me and a busload of tourists speaking tongues drank our cups of water and paid our fees.
and when we left we felt the years slide away onto the hot sidewalk. no one could tell by looking, but we knew we were filled with the fountain of youth.
I bought some souvenirs from a stand outside, a t-shirt and a ponce de leon nightlight. I kept the plastic cup from my taste of youth. they said I wouldn’t need it but I thought I might.
and when I left I felt the years slide away onto the hot sidewalk. no one could tell by looking, but I knew I was filled with the fountain of youth.
just for a second, if you go out of your way, pay a small fee and stand in line. for a moment, if you make the trip, for a moment, age can be a state of mind.
I came back from florida a long time ago, back to everything we all call the truth. but in some secret place of my modern self is the temporary promise of the fountain of youth.
laura barlowe 