The Roads Know Where the Money Went

Look down.
You don't need somebody
to tell you what you paid for.
The street remembers.

Six in the morning, bus hits the hole,
driver knows exactly where to slow.
Nurse at the clinic holds up her phone,
lights the room when the power is gone.
Schoolyard roof lets September through,
three desks dry where there should be two.
Fresh paint smiling on a roadside sign,
while the same old bridge takes one more tire.

They can polish every number,
they can frame it, sign a name.
But when the first hard rain comes down,
the truth comes through the paint.

Receipts in the rain,
receipts in the rain.
Every broken road keeps calling out a name.
You can close the books,
you can turn the page,
but the street keeps the change.
Receipts in the rain.
Oh, receipts in the rain.

Mama fills buckets before daylight,
tap's been dry since Tuesday night.
Market man fixes his roof with tin,
says, "We paid for this—where did it begin?"
Ambulance crawling where asphalt ends,
teacher buys chalk with her own weekend.
Another ribbon, another brand-new sign,
another promise leaning sideways in the wind.

You can bury truth in paper,
you can dress a lie in gold.
But concrete has a memory,
and hungry walls grow old.

Receipts in the rain,
receipts in the rain.
Receipts in the rain,
receipts in the rain.
Every darkened room keeps calling out a name.
You can close the books,
you can turn the page,
but the street keeps the change.
Receipts in the rain.
Oh, receipts in the rain.

Don't tell me what was promised.
Show me the water.
Show me the medicine.
Show me the classroom
when the cameras have gone home.
Show me the bridge
after the ribbon is cut.
If the numbers say finished—
why are we still waiting?

Show us the road.

Show us the road.
(Show us the road.)
Show us the light.
(Show us the light.)
Show us the work
that was paid for twice.
Show us the school.
Show us the school.
(Show us the ward.)
No more hiding
behind the words.

Rain comes down.
Paint runs thin.
What was covered
shows again.
Rain comes down.
Hear that sound—
the whole street
speaking now.

Receipts in the rain,
receipts in the rain.
Every broken promise leaves a little stain.
You can close the books,
you can lock the gate,
but you can't make the evidence fade.
Receipts in the rain,
receipts in the rain.
From the clinic door to the midnight train.
We don't need a rumor,
we don't need a name—
we don't need a name—
look around.
Receipts in the rain.
Receipts in the rain.

When the speeches end,
when the banners change,
when the motorcades are gone—
the road remains.

The road remains.

And the rain
keeps the receipts.