You plant boots on Beacon brick where gulls cry loud
Leaves skip gutters like a deck of cards dealt proud
Charles River breath smells salt and diesel smoke
Your rod tip trembles waiting for a strike or joke
Wool cap pulled low against the Nor'easter bite
Bucket sits ready for a silver flash of white
Tourists snap photos of your weathered wooden creel
Meter clicks off blocks while you pretend to feel
Casting lines on brick where history runs deep
Autumn wind sings bass while city pavements sleep
No tide chart guides you just the cabbie's ancient rhyme
You hook the golden hour every single time
I've driven mayors and drunks past this same spot
Seen you reel in nothing but the gravity you got
Rain smears windshield into watercolor streaks
Fare drops two dollars while the weekend peaks
Casting lines on brick where history runs deep
Autumn wind sings bass while city pavements sleep
No tide chart guides you just the cabbie's ancient rhyme
You hook the golden hour every single time
Proverb says the patient angler feeds the soul
But bricks don't yield no stripers just the concrete toll
Synth pads swell warm like heater vents in dash
You catch the city's pulse in every crash and flash
Neon reflects wet on historic Beacon Street
Brass stabs cut sharp through the funk rhythm beat
Your line goes tight a phantom tug of war
Headlights paint your shadow on the library door
Night dispatcher calls my number on the air
You pack the empty creel with quiet deliberate care
Meter resets zero as I pull away
Brick holds your ghost until the next autumn day
Casting lines on brick where history runs deep
Autumn wind sings bass while city pavements sleep
No tide chart guides you just the cabbie's ancient rhyme
You hook the golden hour every single time
Yellow cab rolls down the avenue
Brick holds heat while autumn breaks
