Sunlight peels like dead paint
on the church of the Italian Saint
and from across the street they're frying up steak
and chicken from Kentucky.
On the street the safe cracker don't say much.
He leans back on his aluminum crutch.
They said in the old days he had the touch,
but he lost it doin' time.
Boney-faced woman pickin' through the trash
adds up the cans, counts up the cash.
never talks about her past.
Says American dream is easy.
She's got a Motorola.
She's got the money that they owed her.
She's got a leather recliner workin' nights at the diner.
She said with the time-and-a-half the days go by so easy now.
and ya get it all back somewhere down the line.
Black limousine, too long to park,
traffic jammed up lookin' for a jump start.
Lovers and others alone in the park walk their dogs together.
Yesterday's grease in the fry-o-later, the door got stuck on the elevator,
and he never made it in time for the job as a waiter
so they made him a bus boy.
Haulin' the dishes away on a tray.
Life on the edge at the minimum wage.
Workin' late nights and a couple of days for tips on the table.
He's got a chain of gold.
He's got remote control.
He's going back to Jamaica with a refrigerator.
He said with the frost free it's got to be so easy now.
And ya get it all back somewhere down the line.
She was an actress in her younger days,
playin' bit parts on the Broadway stage,
in demand and highly paid.
They said she was almost famous.
She could have gone to Hollywood just the same,
when vaudeville died and the whole thing changed,
but she made up her mind that she would remain
and try to make it on her own.
But some times on the street she falls into a dream,
remembering lines from the silver screen,
playin' some roll for the final scene from the movie in her mind.
She's got pictures from the past.
She's got diamonds made of glass.
She's got a standing ovation.
At the stage door the boys are waitin'.
In the bright foot lights the nights go by so easy now,
and ya get it all back somewhere down the line.
Silver-jacket jazz man playin' backup sax for a five-piece band,
takin' a smoke break by the taxi stand,
says those days are dyin'.
He's played all the big clubs on the east coast.
He said the money was good, but it comes and goes,
and every line on his face is a mile on the road.
His hands are shaky.
But he still hears a tune in the wheels of the train,
saxaphones in the wind and the rain,
and though the song is different and the music has changed,
it goes on forever.
He's got an old brass horn.
He's got mattress that he sleeps on.
He's got a diamond stick pin.
He's got a station wagon he's been livin' in.
Though the nights are long he gets along so easy now
and ya get it all back somewhere down the line.
