Track Insight / Lyrics
I know these potholes by their groan — seven on Elm, three where the curb dips
That bus-stop lamp's been stuttering since the Tuesday fog rolled thick and gray
But the bench still holds, the schedule still peels its paper to the pole
and I idle here, engine ticking, till the 4:15 slides in and the doors hiss open
One bulb, blinking like an old man blinking at the passenger seat
The asphalt's warm where the afternoon sun laid out its copper coins
You don't have to be early, you don't have to be late — the stop is the stop, friend
and the meter's parked, the keys are in my hand, and the seat is yours tonight
The kid with the green headphones never sees the lamp, he's three blocks deep in a song
But I do. I see it from the wheel, that little orange stutter in the fog
No grand thing at all — just a filament doing its best where the wiring frayed
and that's how I drive this route: not the way the map says, the way the street tells you
One bulb, blinking like an old man blinking at the passenger seat
The asphalt's warm where the afternoon sun laid out its copper coins
You don't have to be early, you don't have to be late — the stop is the stop, friend
and the meter's parked, the keys are in my hand, and the seat is yours tonight
