| From the corner of Third and Washington
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| You can’t see where your brother went
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| Out somewhere past the beat cops
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| And beautiful women who work for the government
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| They walk by in air-conditioned tunnels
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| That are a cut above the street
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| While I sweat in my hot coffee
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| And daydream about how we might meet
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| Your mother asked for a picture
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| She says, «Today's your birthday»
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| In some strung out western stutter
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| Making all the world her ashtray
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| She adjusts her aviators
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| With an absent shaking hand
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| Tilts the camera forward forty-five degrees
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| And calls out modeling commands
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| When we used to go to parties
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| You’d spend an hour before the mirror
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| And I’d drink your gin
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| And ask about your high school souvenirs
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| Tacked on the wall above the bed
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| An old Inkjet collage
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| But you were never much for talking
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| So I knelt to your mirage
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| We’d walk the three blocks westbound
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| In the moonlit Philly fall
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| And the party would be grand
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| All our friends would grin with pride
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| All our friends would be so drunk
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| And have such pleasant things to say
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| And at last, we’d see each other
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| In the way that we had dreamed to be seen
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| Those nights your house kept secret
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| We’d stumble up the stairs
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| My hands tore through your records
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| While your hands unpinned your hair
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| The both of us still green enough
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| To remove the other’s clothes
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| A quiet signal of devotion
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| That I am happy to have known |