Calendar Days

It's a high beam drive and I think of you sitting at home

Your dad's TV Weeks stacked to the window

And before I knock I just catch your face

Washed in the Panadol light

I'd let you know that I'd be here, but that's not my style

And way all up and down the line

Standard time, standard time

White metal on a wet, black drive

They're all calendar days, but you try to break out

And that old best friend is a Zamels ad

Bleeding ink on wet pavement or blazing on a model hand

And there's a kind of quiet, a fighter jet's applause

They're all saw-toothed fragments scattered in an empty hall

And I'm reminded of a rewinding cassette

As tyre rubber comes blooming around your legs

And I'm waking up and the sky is pure appliance white

A day as true as TV cop flashback

And way all up and down the line

Standard time, standard time

White metal on a wet, black drive

They're all calendar days, but you try to break out