Phantom Wage

[Verse 1]
Look, the porch light on their Elmwood mansion hums a six-figure tune,
and I’m clearing tiny crab cakes by the light of a July moon.
The air smells like cut grass and money I will never make,
just a ghost in a black bowtie for goodness gracious sake.

[Chorus]
Oh Anna, my hands are numb inside these service gloves,
just a twitching synapse reaching for a different kind of love.

[Verse 2]
Look, how we used to share a thermos sitting on the Erie docks,
watching grain elevators sleep like giants in their concrete socks.
You’d trace the faded ink stain bleeding through my worn-out jeans,
another holy relic from a life of smaller means.

[Chorus]
Oh Anna, my spine's a wire in this rented tuxedo,
just a phantom limb that points to where we'll never get to go.

[Bridge]
You whispered on the drive here, “It’s just cartilage and bone.”
You said, “A job is just a job, Jude, you are never coming home alone.”

[Chorus]
Oh Anna, my jaw is set from smiling at the talk,
just the slow-set fracture of a walk around the block.

[Outro]
I can feel it in my marrow,
this phantom wage I owe.