There’s a path that you’ve been traveling, and it feels so very long;
like the starting verse of maybe eighteen hundred country songs.
You’ve been traveling for forever, and you think you’re getting there
but it’s been so long since seeing signs that told you that somewhere
was a site you’d be arriving at to do you any good
and you can’t remember when you last were in a neighborhood
where you thought that you might stop, find a place to call your own.
and now you’re hitting sixty… in a thirty five and under limit zone.
You feel that you are speeding; and you’re nowhere near your prime.
That when they hear you, they know you’ve not yet begun to rhyme,
that your past is but an afterthought, your future blinding bright,
that the sunglasses you wear are simply there to stop the light
and not to block the glare for your weakened cornea
which need such great protection from those visions from the sun.
So you drive alone in whispers, claiming that you are still spry,
and you’re hitting sixty… while everybody else is passing by.
Well, you’re hitting sixty, on a road with fallen trees
in pitch-black moonless night with no U-turn that you can see.
The mist is high, your lights are broke, and your brakes feel pad-free…
and… you are hitting sixty.
You know your car can’t last eternally. The gas will fail
and soon after you’ll just stumble down the stones – you and your pail.
Or your license will be taken and you’ll have to hitch a ride
or take a bus or hail a cab or somehow else just die inside.
Like some cook once might’ve told you, a change was gonna come,
but you assumed that change was not for you – just everyone.
You act like you’re still flying high, you’d never go to ground
but you’re hitting sixty… and everyone can see you’re slowing down.