Black coffee in a plastic cup
The sun is taking way too long to wake up
Old grease is popping on the flat top grill
The desert wind is standing perfectly still
A patchwork coat of orange and white
Pacing the porch in the early morning light
Walking the line where the concrete meets the sand
A tiny ghost in a wide and empty land
Tracing the edge of the motel floor
Waiting for someone to open the door
Calico paws on a weathered grey pine
Walking a thin and a lonely white line
I throw a scrap of ham across the tile
She looks at me with a crooked little smile
The regulars are nodding in the booth
Looking for a lie or a bitter kind of truth
Tracing the edge of the motel floor
Waiting for someone to open the door
Calico paws on a weathered grey pine
Walking a thin and a lonely white line
The paint is peeling off the wooden rail
A rusted bucket and a broken garden pail
But she finds a spot where the warmth hits the stone
A little piece of heaven to call her own
Sipping on brew that tastes like burnt old tin
Watching the highway where the long haulers spin
She doesn't want a house or a velvet red bed
Just a dry place to lay her small calico head
The grill is cooling and the clock strikes four
I sweep the salt and the grit from the door
She curls in a circle by the welcome mat
A desert queen and a ragged little cat
Tracing the edge of the motel floor
Waiting for someone to open the door
Calico paws on a weathered grey pine
Walking a thin and a lonely white line
Stay for a while.
Just walk the line.
Calico edge.
