Track Insight / Lyrics
Old leather chair, gutter‑slick city hum—
You and I sit, scrolling the stale menu.
The vinyl cracks like a forgotten lullaby,
We stare at each other, no scripts, just real talk.
I slid on my cap, rain slick on the windshield.
The neon flickers, a gutter glow on the doorway.
The waiter pulls a coffee—steam curls around the paper cup,
And I hear the hiss of the jukebox, a dusty riff.
"You know, the city has a tongue," I say, wry grin,
"It slaps the tired and makes them grin."
She laughs and orders a steak‑and‑bacon combo,
We trade stories—each one louder than neon.
Crowded chalkboard menu, a rectangle of crumbs,
The old radio on the counter plays a broken 9‑11 line.
Scratch of vinyl, the hiss of cold, and a knock at the door,
The old man with a newspaper warns, "Don't let the alley sniff."
"You've got that face, like a faded postcard, kid," I chuckle.
"Back then we liked a head of lettuce, not a digital kid."
She nods, eyes on the steam, "Life's not a song,"
We touch the cracked seat, and say we're both in song.
The plate in front of me is a chrome‑thinning dream,
The mug drops as the vinyl crackles a steady beat.
The street outside hums its tireless lull,
We walk out—no more waiting, just the night's quiet.
