Formica Silence

[Verse 1]
The Formica table's a map of old knife scars.
Tuesday night, 9 PM, under pale neon bars.
You trace the crack in your water glass, a slow and thoughtful line,
And say, "You think this drought'll break sometime before 'ninety-nine?"

[Chorus]
And this is our formica silence, our polite and empty space.
You're readin' me the specials, I can't find my own damn place.
We're talking 'bout the weather when the blight is on the vine,
Just passing 'round the good salt in a quiet pantomime.

[Verse 2]
The waitress warms my coffee cup, the steam smells like a ghost.
You ask about my mother, the thing that hurts the most.
"She's fine," I say, "Just working hard. You know how she can be."
(I didn't say her knuckles bleed from chopping bitter leaf.)

[Chorus]
And this is our formica silence, our polite and empty space.
You're readin' me the specials, I can't find my own damn place.
We're talking 'bout the weather when the blight is on the vine,
Just passing 'round the good salt in a quiet pantomime.

[Bridge]
(Tempo slows)
Are we just two stubborn roots in a dry irrigation ditch?
Pretending there's a harvest when there ain't a damn thing rich?

[Chorus]
(Tempo returns, key changes up a whole step)
Yeah, this is our formica silence, our polite and empty space!
You're readin' me the specials, I can't find my own damn place!
We're talking 'bout the weather when the blight is on the vine,
Just passing 'round the good salt in a quiet pantomime.

[Outro]
You drop a ten-spot on the bill and say, "It's gettin' late."
The quiet follows us right through the cast iron gate.