The Man Who played with model trains,
In the furnished basement painted black,
How it pleased him everyday,
The pattern of the rail,
The pattern of tiny track,
One night he slips and hits his head,
As he reaches for a sleeper car,
And the lights keep blinking red,
Now level with his eyes,
His miniature place de gare,
The kids knew something wasn't right
In the morning when he kissed them all
He didn't say a word
And model trains keep going round
Showered, shaved, but sullied still,
With a fist of pink and blue and red
He will swallow every pill
To help him with his fear
Of getting from the bath to bed
And the model trains keep going round
Eyes cased in rime
A face that's chapped with tiger's tears
How his wife will mark the time
By learning how to love,
He's been like this for seven years
And now as a last resort,
She drives him to the ward in redding
Thirty miles away
And through, through the spidered glass
The headstraps and the gas,
She watches as they put him under,
And the model trains keep going round
She drives him home in the family car
Stealing glances at this body strange
The vacant smile, the clean white scar
On the man who disappeared
The man who played with model trains
The man who made her laugh
The man who played with model trains
