A Guy Who Isn't Home

I looked at my reflection in the mirror,
Just to see that I was home,
The conclusion that I came to wasn’t clear,
But by then I had moved on,
Down around the shadows by the pier,
Where the sailors come and go,
And I started down the road of stolen glances,
Where the late night movies show.
By midnight I’ll wandering on the corners,
Of a bad neighborhood,
Vaguely in search of feeling nothing,
'Cause nothing feels good,
By docks that held a thousand bales of cotton,
And Carribean rum,
Abandoned to decay now and forgotten,
To the tides that rise to them.
I must say it adds something to my travels,
To be traveling alone,
No one could prove for certain I’d a witness,
At the bar or hotel room,
And there upon the chair next to the table,
In the room beneath a dome,
In a black coat and boater,
Is the picture of a guy who isn’t home.