200 or American Blues

I was some storm clouds,
some grey nights for
you to get lost in.
I was one of your father’s
beat up cars.
All I had was cracked leather under
wooden street lights.
I was a cathedral for your war.
And you said it was so bad,
all the towns your faith and your
father took you to.
You never left all the homes you left.
So you moved down the street from
our old picket fence.
But I couldn’t stand to see where
I was raised.
Sent me postcards but didn’t ask
why I never called.
You lost your mind for a little while.