Rain slicks the yellow tile at midnight
Last car rumbles past the empty platform
Tabby slips through cracked glass doorways
Warm paper smells replace the cold wind
She knows the routes like meters know the fare
Each station holds a story in its grain
No passenger asks where she's going
She rides the lines through wind and driving rain
Hardcover spines make better bedding
Than vinyl seats that held ten thousand riders
She kneads the dust jackets, claims her corner
Purrs like an engine idling at curbside
She knows the routes like meters know the fare
Each station holds a story in its grain
No passenger asks where she's going
She rides the lines through wind and driving rain
Morning brings the commuter shuffle
Briefcases click past whiskers on the threshold
She watches fares collected, journeys ending
Wise as any driver on the night shift
She knows the routes like meters know the fare
Each station holds a story in its grain
No passenger asks where she's going
She rides the lines through wind and driving rain
Schedule changes, routes get rearranged
But she stays put where paper worlds stay open
A permanent resident, no transfer needed
Home is where the quiet stories live
She knows the routes like meters know the fare
Each station holds a story in its grain
No passenger asks where she's going
She rides the lines through wind and driving rain
Home is where the quiet stories live
Home is where the quiet stories live
