God, and The 401
The 401 is stopped again
Iím stranded here
Tired and anxious and bored
A red march of tail lights
Dot into the sunset
Iím beginning to believe
I may never get home.
At times like this
I think of places
Far far away
And dream Iím going someplace
Where seagulls wheel high in the sky
And waves break upon the shore
Sounding like thunder
Moonlight dances across water
God, how I wish I were there.
This is a city
Where hopes and dreams
Are driven, sometimes taken away
And the truth of it is
Iím looking for God in Toronto
Iím positive he lives here somewhere
ĎCause Jesus is driving a taxi
Mohammad delivers the papers
And Buddha, he runs the store.
As for me Iím a disciple
Straining for knowledge
And yearning for truth
My heart tells me
We all of us deserve better.
Weíre going nowhere
Silently aging as the minutes creep by
And the more that I look
At the faces around me
The more that I wonder and hope.
Jesus, heís hearing confessions
From some suit in the back of his cab
He hear about lovers and stock options and ozone
And maybe he thinks heís half mad
From the work, the fear, and the boredom
He sees just to survive.
Are we any of us any different?
I wonder and onward I drive
In my heart there are trees rustling softly,
A whisper of green in the wind
But I live in a high rise jungle
With windows, dead eyes, they stare
Thereís a backyard for me,
And maybe some grass
If we work just a little bit harder.
Buddha, heís had his share
Of guns in his face and threats.
Heís thinking of leaving for somewhere
Maybe Vancouver or Victoria, B.C.
He knows heís got relatives there
Whatís more, he himselfís a Canadian
The son of a son of a railway man
His family helped build this land
So why does he run the store?
ĎCause thereís always a dollar
Between him and the answer
And his ideas he gives to his sons
Hoping that they, someday, someday
Will have the answer with knowledge
ĎCause they know just a little bit more.
Me, Iím a disciple
Watching, and hearing, and living
Did this traffic just move a wee bit?
Mohammad heís tired, he has two degrees
But heís not licensed to even the score
So he works and he studies and waits
And he waits just a little more.
Thereís something we all have in common
As we sit here and yearn for the flow
At the end of these tail lights
At the end of the road
Is a place that we all call home
So we are all united in something
A something so simple we miss it
Thereís a place at end of this long weary day
Where a heart waits
And a family who knows
That if we all join together
Whatever the time or the place
Weíd all of us have treasure:
Love, at the end of an off ramp
If ever, if ever
We get there.
” 1/7/1992 Catherine M. Harris Davies