Well her hair hung down like honey
in the sunlight of the morning
and she'd stand there in that window
like a flower in its garden
in her white dress all unfastened
while her cat slept on the table
and the wind howled through the attic
she'd say "There's fairies in the gables"
She'd sit down in the doorway
tying up her pigtails in the sun

Well, she moved here from a small town
with the cold rains of December
and I asked her about her home town
she'd say "I really can't remember,
except the girls there didn't like me
because their boyfriends want to screw you
and they all get drunk on Saturday
and on Sunday sing hallelujah
and I never found kindness in their strangers
and I don't believe in their Jesus
or their mangers and I told them so."

And she'd walk home in the evenings
through the alleys down the sidewalk
and I'd swear that she was floating
like some angel through a junkyard
through the slow grind of the city
she'd snake through all the shoppers
disappearing around the corner
with her butterfly book bag
and her long hair
and I'm so glad that I met her
yesterday
but not today.

Now her window's full of raindrops
and I'm putting out the candles
and I'm making sure the door's locked
when I swore I saw her standing
Hear her cat cry at the front door
so I hurried to unlatch it
but there's nothing when I open
must have been those fairies in the attic
or the cold street lights of Manhattan