Atlanta Streetcar System: The Commuter's Whisper

Lyrics

[Intro]


[Verse 1]
The porch light clicks off on Euclid Avenue.
A dozen silent agreements to meet the seven-o-five.
Morning chill on the brick walk.
Joel Hurt's little promise, made of steel and wire,
is coming now.
You can hear it whine before you see the lamp.
Neighbors nod, not speaking.
It’s too early for the day to have a voice.


[Chorus]
This is the commuter's whisper.
The smell of ozone and damp wool.
The rustle of a newspaper, a covenant of shared silence.
The world outside the glass, a gliding diorama.
Wheels on the track sing a low, metallic hymn,
carrying us from the garden to the grind.

[Verse 2]
We pass Springvale Park, a blur of Olmsted's green.
Gloves held tight in a lap.
A hat adjusted just so.
He thinks of the ledger, the columns of black ink.
She thinks of the rain, if the windows were left open.
Asa Candler might be two seats ahead,
just another man reading the morning headlines.
Our private thoughts, rocking in this public cradle.


[Bridge]
This wooden box, a vessel between two lives.
No horses, just a hum from the wire overhead.
A quiet magic we learned not to speak about.
From the planned tranquility of our Victorian porches
to the city's iron heart,
waiting.

[Outro]
The evening run, a mirror of the dawn.
Past the Trolley Barn, sleeping now behind its brick facade.
Gaslights throw long shadows on the walk home.
The bell clangs a final time.
And the whisper fades down the tracks.