You wake up where the coffee is black.
A heavy chain and a rusted track.
You see a hull on a cobblestone street.
Where the salt and the old city meet.
The espresso machines start to hum.
The morning crowd is starting to come.
You stand by a boat made of iron and oil.
While the Roman pots start to boil.
You are a tugboat lost in the stone.
A saltwater ghost far from home.
Tangled in plazas and white marble walls.
Waiting for the deep ocean calls.
The tourists stare at your weathered gray paint.
The smell of the diesel is heavy and faint.
You belong in the chop of the bay.
Not in the light of a Tuscan day.
You are a tugboat lost in the stone.
A saltwater ghost far from home.
Tangled in plazas and white marble walls.
Waiting for the deep ocean calls.
No tide coming in to pull you away.
No current to carry you out of the gray.
Just a red velvet chair and a plate.
And a heavy iron anchor of fate.
You dream of the swells and the crashing green foam.
Far from the ruins and the gold-plated dome.
You miss the cold wind and the spray on your face.
Trapped in a beautiful, breathless place.
The waiters arrive with the linen and bread.
A vision of water inside of your head.
You lean on the bricks of a dead empire street.
Feeling the pavement beneath your steel feet.
You are a tugboat lost in the stone.
A saltwater ghost far from home.
Tangled in plazas and white marble walls.
Waiting for the deep ocean calls.
Far from the bay.
Lost in the gray.
Steel in the square.
