Grease on my apron, coffee in a cup
Sun hits the pavement as the town wakes up
I walk past the workshop where the ivy grows
Down where the rusted garden fence-line goes
Old wooden boat on a dry land shore
Waiting for waves and an open door
Sinking in grass while the summer heat clings
Waiting for bells that the ocean rings
Paint peeling back like a tired old skin
Holding the ghosts of where it has been
I flip some burgers with a heavy hand
Thinking of salt and a distant strand
Old wooden boat on a dry land shore
Waiting for waves and an open door
Sinking in grass while the summer heat clings
Waiting for bells that the ocean rings
Regulars come in for the early brew
Tell me the news and the things that are new
I look at the window and I see the yard
Keeping a watch and keeping a guard
Old wooden boat on a dry land shore
Waiting for waves and an open door
Sinking in grass while the summer heat clings
Waiting for bells that the ocean rings
Cedar and pine in a tangled green net
A kind of a promise it hasn't met yet
Staring at clouds in a pale blue sky
Watching the heavy slow hours go by
No tide in the dirt, no salt in the air
Just a dead end road and a vacant stare
It doesn't move and it doesn't complain
Just taking a drink from the April rain
Wipe down the counter, turn the burner low
Back to the house where the wild things grow
I stand by the boat in the overgrown deep
While the rest of the neighborhood falls asleep
Old wooden boat on a dry land shore
Waiting for waves and an open door
Sinking in grass while the summer heat clings
Waiting for bells that the ocean rings
Just a dry land boat. Still waiting there.
Yeah, still waiting.
