Crescent Moon: Decatur Breakfast Library

Lyrics

[Intro]

[Verse 1]
Three-eighteen West Ponce, on a Saturday morning.
The line is out the door, but no one seems to mind the waiting.
We press our noses to the glass, find our names on the list.
Mismatched chairs and the smell of coffee we couldn't resist.
A dog-eared copy of Vonnegut on a wobbly table for two.
Just killing time until they call for me and you.

[Verse 2]
Your thesis was a mess, my novel was a ghost.
But here, among the paperbacks, we felt we were getting close.
Every spine was cracked, every cover was worn thin.
Donated stories for the new ones about to begin.
Someone named 'Sarah, '88' had underlined a phrase in blue ink.
Gave us more to talk about than you might think.

[Chorus]
Oh, the Crescent Moon, our breakfast library.
Where the menu was a table of contents, you see.
And we'd order up a story with a side of home fries,
And Moon Pie French Toast under Decatur skies.
A catalog of mornings, filed under our names.
Burning our tongues and whispering away the pains.

[Verse 3]
Debbie Stutsman knew the regulars, she knew the artists on the walls.
She built a quiet harbor from nineteen ninety-five's first calls.
Seventeen years of omelets, seventeen years of ink-stained hands.
Turning pages slowly, making and unmaking plans.
We were just a chapter, maybe only just a line.
A syrup-sticky fingerprint, a footnote lost in time.

[Bridge]
Then came the April notice, a bookmark at the final page.
Suddenly the story's over, time to clear the stage.
'A lot of history in people's lives,' that's what she said.
All those quiet conversations living in my head.

[Chorus]
Oh, the Crescent Moon, our breakfast library.
Where the menu was a table of contents, you see.
And we'd order up a story with a side of home fries,
And Moon Pie French Toast under Decatur skies.
A catalog of mornings, filed under our names.
Burning our tongues and whispering away the pains.

[Outro]
Three-eighteen West Ponce.
Just an address now.
A turned-down page.