CATCH-ALL

[Verse 1]
Third drawer down in Mr. Sissoko’s galley kitchen,
9:43 PM, every Tuesday, finger twitchin'.
The wood runner groans, a dry and dusty friction,
a whole congregation of forgotten jurisdiction.
A single AAA battery, praying for a sibling,
a knot of dead chargers, a dead-end weave, no quibbling.
The scent of stale coupons and cold metal, a ghost on my tongue,
he's mapping the damage, re-stitching where the fabric came unsung.

[Chorus]
(Deeper, second voice)
Slide out, slide in.
Find the shape, lose the skin.
Slide out, slide in.
Where do the real parts begin?

[Verse 2]
Polite nod in the hallway, eyes holding a weather pattern,
his mask is perfection, an impeccable satin.
But back in the quiet, he worships this clutter,
“Don’t you throw that out,” is a phrase that he’ll mutter.
A receipt from Pathmark, the ink’s almost faded,
a key to a Honda that the repo man raided.
It ain’t about treasure, it’s the weight in his palm,
the cold steel ballast that’s keeping him calm.

[Chorus]
(Deeper, second voice)
Slide out, slide in.
Find the shape, lose the skin.
Slide out, slide in.
Where do the real parts begin?

[Bridge]
We all got a drawer for the parts that we sever,
a box for the proof we ain't been this way forever.
A pocket of threads that we can’t throw away,
I see my own father in his face from the doorway.
The weight of the promise, the bill you can’t pay,
I’m watching his ritual, and I turn away.

[Outro]
His hand stops moving, it hovers right over…
The little brass lion head from a broken-down sofa…
(Sound of a wooden drawer sliding shut abruptly, cutting off the beat)