Just like that it was winter again here in the desert.
In June, our house was empty.
In September it's full of house guests.
They're too punk, or I'm too punk, for words to come out sitting here in the living room of our beautiful, broken-down house.
I've been working so much lately, when I'm home I feel like a stranger in a foreign country where I can't speak the language of unemployment, minor crimes, plans to get the hell out.
I mutter "fuck the police" and lie down in our beautiful, broken-down house.
We were in the kitchen, it was the week you first moved in.
I said, "
We're glad to have you." You shrugged. "
Well, it's here or a ditch..." Thanks for dancing, thanks for singing, thanks for sticking around and making a home with us here in our beautiful, broken-down house.
On my days off I like to sit up on the roof and watch the traffic.
There's my buddy Micky from the laundromat, walking by looking pretty dope sick.
And hell, I remember that walk, but I haven't taken it for three years now.
So Micky, come here and lie down in our beautiful, broken-down house.
The last couple weeks I know you've been having trouble breathing—and maybe, truthfully, trouble with most things—but don't you worry if the pipes freeze and power goes out.
We'll just be friends who are cold, in the dark, of our beautiful, broken-down house.
And just like that it was summer again here in Tucson.
In March our house was a jungle, in July it's an abandoned parking lot.
You move back to England, you move with the seasons, you move where it's hip right now.
I say, "
Fuck them all" and lie down in our beautiful, broken-down house.