Sunday Morning, at a Funeral

Sunday morning still laid innocent in sheets, barely half asleep Sunday morning I was dreaming I was turning from a busy street into a parking lot Sunday morning broke and dragged me out of bed, slightly less asleep Sunday morning I was warming all the cold parts of my head in cups and coffee pots In the winter I wonder what it's like to be anywhere else, to be anywhere but here If I leave and don't return, I hope the factories get full of people making furniture, and the river running clear Sunday morning fell apart and back to sleep where I was running late, where I looked out of place Sunday morning pace of steady nervous feet headed for the church doors Sunday morning dressed in suits and shades of black, Sunday morning soft in Sunday best Sunday someone's never coming back here to this place anymore In the winter I wonder what it's like to be anywhere else, to be anywhere but here If I leave and don't return, I hope the factories get full with people making furniture, and the river running clear Sunday morning stared at rows of crowded pews, half or all asleep, looking for a seat Sunday morning waiting for a call from you but didn't hear my phone ring Sunday morning had to sit and watch you bawl, Sunday morning left the ringer off Sunday morning missed it when you called and couldn't do a thing but watch In the winter I wonder what it's like to be where you are, where you are, where you are In the winter I wonder what it'd be like if you were still here Would the factories fill? Would the river run clear? Would the river run? Sunday morning dreamt about a moment passed about a time I failed Sunday morning I was staring at the clock trying to push it back Sunday morning wished to be a kid Sunday morning shook me all the way awake, stirred me from the dream Sunday morning I was thinking of a phone call I should make to you but never did, I never did