Things we have in common

Her father was an astronaut and all the other things
The little boys dreamed about
Staring at the ceiling, laying on their backs and bellies
Caught up in the season, playing on the front porch swinging
Baseballs in the back lots, talking words that don’t have meanings
Her father was an astronaut

Her father was a cowboy riding towards the big sun setting
Bullets in the bad guys Beans around the campfire singing
Tunes about the old trails, talking words that don’t have meanings
Her father was a cowboy

In my sleep my hair grows
It’s hard to keep these things we have in common anymore

Her father was a prostitute
Selling his own body to men across the business table
Out to make an offer, talking words that don’t have meaning
Her father was a prostitute

In the rainstorm windshield wipers
Steer the fates of the car drivers
I am putting all my faith in these doors keeping
All my secrets safe and warm

It’s not certain whether you are right or you are wrong
It’s not certain whether plane tickets will break my fall
But I’m hoping that sitting next to the telephone twisting
Cords will keep me until the time you call

Her father was a Casanova
Her father was a palindrome
Her father was a picture taker
Her father held the head of the woman that he loved in his own hands

Her blood is yours, her blood is mine
And we will burst inside these borders, clinging tight to these ideas
But it’s hard to keep these things we have in common anymore