Slid onto the symbol of this slippery kind of life,
Searching through the empty crowd for no one she's expecting.
Happy hour, half over, unconnected.
Still not six.

Drops of music fell like rain onto the cheerful bottles,
Saxophones and violins in grimaces of same old songs that
She heard on the radio. Maybe they'll announce that
Soon it will be six.

In the morning it was new and so was she, all day ahead.
Somewhere in the afternoon the clouds came in;
Something told her to be in a safe place
When it's six.