Tacoma

There’s a clock in a turned-out room
With a never-changing tune
The hands slowly sped as the numbers did
Like a boa turning you blue
A house in disarray
It’s not easier to say
What sunk you here
A junk career or a meter you’d never pay?
A hollow man, a hard-luck tan
Tell me, have you seen this man?
Grown thin and tightly lipped
Tell us what you’ve promised it
There’s a breaker with a burned-up fuse
Buried deep beneath the bruise
There’s no refuge in the will to prove
What you won’t and wouldn’t do
A house in disarray
No one knows quite what to say
It’s a dialect, an unpaid debt
That speaks in collect calls
A hollow gram, a hard luck hand
Tell me, have you seen this man?
Snake bit a rubber band
Prince on unkempt porcelain
A hologram no longer there
Tell me, do you even care?
It’s coming for the next of kin
Tell us what you’ve promised it