I am the tile on the station floor
Watching the rush by the sliding door
Cold white ceramic and salted grit
Where the midnight commuters all sit
He hums a tune for a hidden vine
Under the tracks on the subway line
Deep in the belly of city stone
Growing a garden all on his own
He brings the soil in a rusted can
Working the dirt with a steady hand
Watering leaves in the humid air
While the sleeping city doesn't care
He hums a tune for a hidden vine
Under the tracks on the subway line
Deep in the belly of city stone
Growing a garden all on his own
He wears a coat made of heavy wool
Feeling the midnight magnetic pull
Tending the ferns in the dim yellow glow
Watching the emerald petals grow
He hums a tune for a hidden vine
Under the tracks on the subway line
Deep in the belly of city stone
Growing a garden all on his own
The A-train rattles the iron beam
Waking the roots from a heavy dream
He doesn't flinch when the sirens wail
He just keeps pruning the silver veil
I feel his boots on my polished face
Keeping the rhythm in this empty space
A sudden touch of a warm brown thumb
Beating the tile like a muffled drum
He hums a tune for a hidden vine
Under the tracks on the subway line
Deep in the belly of city stone
Growing a garden all on his own
Green in the gray.
Just for a day.
Green in the gray.
