Casablanca is a hallway with a sea at one end. Nobody unpacks. Nobody pretends the suitcase is staying. The air tastes of salt and petrol and other people’s luck. I walked in as if I still knew how to knock. Verse 2 The café keeps hours the war forgot to cancel. Champagne that never chilled. A pianist who knows which requests will start a fight. Refugees count spoons. Captains count exits. I counted the space between the door and the piano. Chorus Everybody comes to Rick’s when the map has run out of roads. Everybody comes to Rick’s with a story they can sell or swallow. I came with a husband the century required and a name I used to say in a rented room in June. Verse 3 Victor sat as if chairs were a kind of promise. Straight spine. Kind eyes. The tiredness of a man who has already died once on paper. I looked for the owner the way you look for weather: not hoping. Just needing to know the sky. Bridge (spoken-sung) He was there. Of course he was there. The room had been practicing him the whole time I was gone. Chorus 2 Everybody comes to Rick’s to wait for a boat that is always tomorrow. Everybody comes to Rick’s and leaves a little of their real name at the bar. I left nothing. I had already spent it in Paris. Tag Casablanca is a hallway. I am only passing through. That is what I told myself until the piano looked up.
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