You park the yellow cab beside the glass
The meter dies the night shift finally passed
Tomato vines climb up the splintered frame
Dawn sets the cracked panes all aflame
Greenhouse cab where the driver rests
Salt in the beard and soil on the vest
No fares to call no radio dispatch
Just growing things beneath the broken hatch
You traded foghorns for a dispatch tone
Now lantern light shines on the steering zone
The cello weeps where the horn once blew
Each broken pane holds a different view
Condensation beads on the driver seat
Roots push deep where the asphalt beat
Your logbook's filled with miles and tide
Now seedlings grow where the passengers cried
Greenhouse cab where the driver rests
Salt in the beard and soil on the vest
No fares to call no radio dispatch
Just growing things beneath the broken hatch
The banjo picks a shanty tune
Beneath the cracked and yellowed moon
No lighthouse beam to sweep the bay
Just vines that climb and sway and stay
The meter's silent the journey done
You watch the rising of the sun
You wipe the wheel with a calloused palm
The greenhouse keeps the storm wave calm
No more nights chasing tail lights red
Tomatoes ripen where the fare box bled
Your compass points to soil instead
Greenhouse cab where the driver rests
Salt in the beard and soil on the vest
No fares to call no radio dispatch
Just growing things beneath the broken hatch
Greenhouse cab where the engine catches
Greenhouse cab the final matches
Foot stomp fades on wooden floor
Banjo rolls like waves on shore
