working class hero.
I've decided I'm going to marry a working class hero. Everyone else wants a rock star. I want the smell of grease, coal, gas, smoke, rusted iron, leathery cologne, rough hands. I want the warmth and hum of an old Chevy parked out front, swallowed in the twilight of the deep south. I want crickets around my house in stalks of tall grass. I want twenty thousand days in a wood framed house, settled in the shallow hills. I want the only lights on at night to be in the sky. I want the only sound as I sleep to be the washing machine, instead of angry cars.
I want what was in those Polaroids that day in '79.
I want what was in those Polaroids that day in '79.