Kenny was a funny kind of brother
Spent most of the time on his back
Watching sky go over
Or crouched in the dust with the ants
To hear them whisper.
Kenny lives in Canada now
In a heated apartment block
But I always imagine him out in the snow
And walking off into the dark.
His songs come over the radio
Beautiful fractured lines
For women he’s seen in the subway
Or in glossy magazines
He sings them sweet and sad and low
For ladies who can’t insist
That he love in a foreign language, or give
What he never has possessed.