Stanyan Street

This is a book I wrote some time ago
For those of you who don't know
It came about in a kind of strange way

Glenn Yarborough, who I guess has recorded probably more of my songs
Than almost anybody, was getting ready
To do an album of material of mine
He recorded this particular selection
And after it was completed, the record company called me
And asked me what the poem was taken from

So I lied, I said it was from a book of mine
Called "Stanyan Street and Other Sorrows"
Actually, no such book existed
They put the information on the back of the album anyway
And that first month the album came out
We had about a thousand requests for the book

So every night I went home and wrote it

The moral of that story is if anyone ever asks
If you've written a book, say "sure"
Because what the hell, you can always do it later

At any rate, this is a portion of the title poem
"Stanyan Street"

You lie bent up in embryo sleep
Below the painting of the blue fisherman
Without a pillow

Checkered cover kicked and tangled on the floor
The old house creaking now
Car going by
The wind
Fire engine up the hill
I've disentangled myself from you
Moved silently
Groping in the dark for cigarettes

Now three cigarettes later
Still elated

Still afraid
I sit across the room watching you

The light from the street lamp coming through the shutters

Hysterical patterns flash on the wall sometimes
When a car goes by
Otherwise there is no change
Not in the way you lie curled up
Not in the sounds that never come from you
Not in the discontent I feel
You fill completely this first November day
With Sausalito and sign language
Canoe and coffee

Ice cream and your wide eyes
Now unable to sleep because the day is finally going home

Because your sleep has locked me out

I watch you

And I wonder at you
I know your face by touch when it's dark
I know the profile of your sleeping face
The sound of you sleeping

Sometimes I think you are all sound
Kicking free of covers and adjusting shutters
Moving about in the bathroom
Taking twenty minutes of our precious time

I know the hills and gullies of your body
The curves
The turns

I have total recall of you and Stanyan Street

Because I know it will be important later

It's quiet now

Only the clock
Moving toward rejection tomorrow

Breaks the stillness

There are golden apples
To be picked
Green hills to climb
And meadows to run
When you're young

There are roaring rivers
To be crossed
Bridges to build
And wild oats to sow
As you grow
But later on the other side of time
The apples no longer taste sweet

Bridges fall down
Meadows turn brown
As life falls apart
In a little room
On Stanyan Street