MARTA Chamblee Station

Lyrics

Seven-fifteen in the morning.
The sun is already hot on the concrete platform.
Slanted light on the steel rails, making them shimmer down the line.
The digital sign flickers: DORAVILLE 2 MIN.
The yellow warning strip is scuffed by a thousand mornings.
I lean against the railing and I can smell it.
A little bit of rail grease, a little bit of brake dust from the last train south.
The air is thick, you can almost drink it.
Georgia, in July.

And we wait. Just wait.
Standing here on the new spine of the town.
The Gold Line comes singing from Doraville.
A silver caterpillar, humming on the track.
Doors will hiss open, breathe us in.
And carry us away.

There's a woman with a laptop bag, checking her phone for the tenth time.
A student with headphones, already somewhere else.
A kid with a skateboard, holding it like a shield against his chest.
Three men in paint-splattered jeans, carrying their coolers for the day.
We don't speak.
We just share this piece of air, this patch of shade under the green awning.
We nod. That's all it takes.

And we wait. Just wait.
Standing here on the new spine of the town.
The Gold Line comes singing from Doraville.
A silver caterpillar, humming on the track.
Doors will hiss open, breathe us in.
And carry us away.

My shoes are on a spot...
this concrete poured new in 2007.
But I know what's underneath.
This is the old alignment.
The Roswell branch line, from 1910.
Right here.
They stacked the cotton bales where I'm standing now.
A different kind of cargo. A different kind of hurry.
A town is just a story of how people move through it.
From a wagon to a platform.
From a bale to a briefcase.

The train pulls out.
A rush of wind that smells like ozone.
And then... quiet.
The platform is empty again.
Just for a minute.
The cicadas get louder.
The buses keep humming.
And the sun keeps climbing over the new downtown.
Another train is coming.
Always.