The freight train rumbles by,
as I drive to work, still dark.
I thought about the bad dream,
finding a headless angel in the park.
I sit in my car, time to wait here,
drinking too hot gas station coffee,
listen to that mournful Atlantis guitar,
and try to head bad breath with a toffee.
That headless angel is being put
on the freight train, express to Groom Lake.
Someone might take a picture in Santa Fe,
but no one will be grieving at the wake.
A ghost can’t make a night stand still,
and the one with me, she just plays that song,
that Atlantis guitar, from when she was young,
when she could say in peace there was nothing wrong.