Half-Time Steve

Years and years ago they say
he worked for the carnival.
Lights and bears,
these were his prayers,
until he lost the way.

Some say he died, but he was never born.
Others say he paints the sky
for breakfast every morn.

Broken lamps, out on the lam,
and imaginary peoples
with imaginary printer jams.

Fired up under a half-tone monsoon,
fingers like clockwork on a hand-carved moon.
He’s knee-deep in candles,
up to his cut-off sleeves.
There laughin’ down below,
sat Half-Time Steve.

With a moth in his wallet
and a rusty old wrench,
he’s fightin’ off demons
for a crusty old bench;
At the hardware store,
where we all used to wave,
he’s sitting there, foo-fightin’
so we’ll all think he’s brave.

And we’ve seen him down there,
and he’s got a glass eye,
an’ a bucket full of paint.
Laughin’ at the sky.