One-Bedroom Echo

[Verse 1]
Rosa Parks Transit Center, quarter to five.
His work boots are soaked, but his posture's alive.
He's holding one plastic bag, thin as a prayer,
the smell of the diesel hangs thick in the air.
He's got the same quiet look that I see in my mirror,
a map of the city but the route's never clearer.

[Chorus]
That's the one-bedroom echo I hear in my bones.
The turn of the key in a house with no home.
The hum of the fridge singing all on its own.
That's the one-bedroom echo I fight off alone.

[Verse 2]
He pulls out his phone and the screen makes him tired.
He types out a message, his jaw getting wired.
I can see the green bubble, a sibling's request,
puttin' his own weary patience to test.
"I'll have it by Thursday," he whispers, so low,
a promise he'll keep with the last of his dough.

[Chorus]
That's the one-bedroom echo I hear in my bones.
The turn of the key in a house with no home.
The hum of the fridge singing all on its own.
That's the one-bedroom echo I fight off alone.

[Bridge]
He's a pothos I've seen in a dimly-lit hall,
just enough life to be climbing the wall.
He's the future I'm running from, fast as I can,
a good, tired, responsible, invisible man.

[Outro]
The turn of the key...
In a house with no home...