Totes

A breath between potato chips

A glass of water between cigarettes

A break from balance and returning yet

A break in stride with loaded bets

A long jog down the middle road

A pawn shop where we could levy our souls

A calm pond ripe for skipping stones

Man, who knew that we could be so bold

We can still be found, for we know we are both finders

But we will not be bound, cause we both know what happens to binders

How they get stuffed into plastic totes, Slid under the bed

And we both know that to end up there, well, we'd rather be dead

See we are not our exes

We are not our expectations

We are not merely to be bodies between negotiations

We are not estranged

We are no longer even strangers

We are not to be judges

And we are not to be changers

But we can still be found

For we know we are both finders

But we will not be bound, cause we both know what happens to binders

How they get stuffed into plastic totes, slid under the bed

And we both know that to end up there, well, we'd rather be dead