Calendar Days

It’s a high beam drive and I think of you sitting at home
Your dad’s TV Weeks stacked to the window
And before I knock I just catch your face
Washed in the Panadol light
I’d let you know that I’d be here, but that’s not my style
And way all up and down the line
Standard time, standard time
White metal on a wet, black drive
They’re all calendar days, but you try to break out
And that old best friend is a Zamels ad
Bleeding ink on wet pavement or blazing on a model hand
And there’s a kind of quiet, a fighter jet’s applause
They’re all saw-toothed fragments scattered in an empty hall
And I’m reminded of a rewinding cassette
As tyre rubber comes blooming around your legs
And I’m waking up and the sky is pure appliance white
A day as true as TV cop flashback
And way all up and down the line
Standard time, standard time
White metal on a wet, black drive
They’re all calendar days, but you try to break out