Flour dust on my apron hem
Coffee steam at three A M
He sits where yellow lines converge
A sailor with no urge to surge
His peacoat's brass has dulled to brown
No horizon just the underground
He counts the stops like waves he knew
Now landlocked in a borough blue
He rides the rails where tides don't reach
No salt wind here to bite the beach
His compass spins on platform tile
Dry docked heart in exile
I've flipped eggs for the night shift crowd
Watch him rise above the cloud
Of benzene and brake dust air
A captain with no ocean there
He rides the rails where tides don't reach
No salt wind here to bite the beach
His compass spins on platform tile
Dry docked heart in exile
The platform hums a diesel hymn
No gulls cry out no decks to skim
But in his palms I see the map
Of every storm he'd navigate
The express tears through mosaic tile
He doesn't flinch just waits awhile
My grill goes cold the bacon's done
But he's not chasing any sun
Next train comes the doors exhale
He boards the beast on iron rail
No gangway here no quarterdeck
Just plastic seats and vinyl neck
He rides the rails where tides don't reach
No salt wind here to bite the beach
His compass spins on platform tile
Dry docked heart in exile
Dry docked heart in exile
Coffee's cold the dawn turns gray
Another ship has sailed away
