A Handful of Brass

[Verse 1]
The number 4 bus to Half-Way Tree hisses its brakes.
He polishes the Yale key for the gate that the '88 hurricane took.
The brass is warm from his palm, a slow kind of ache.
He doesn't give the leaving bus a second look.

[Chorus]
A lock that turned to rust and dust, a memory's ghost.
He holds the shape of the turning hand he misses the most.

[Verse 2]
The August heat makes the asphalt soft under his shoe.
Someone asks him the time, he just says, "'Bout half-past due."
A little girl watches the shine, a sun in his grip.
The pressure in his thumbprint steadying his bottom lip.

[Chorus]
A lock that turned to rust and dust, a story's ghost.
He holds the shape of a world inside he misses the most.

[Bridge]
A trace fossil of a life, worn smooth in his hand.
The benthic weight of a promise on this piece of land.

[Chorus]
That lock that turned to rust and dust, a sweet-low ghost.
He holds the shape of the quiet home he misses the most.

[Outro]
The key doesn't shine anymore.
The sun went down.