Six A.M. Jersey

Before the sun clears the rooftops, Hoboken's PATH platform is already working. Half the overhead lights are gone or sputtering. The people coming down the stairs carry coffee in both hands and don't look at each other — not out of coldness, just the private arithmetic of early morning. This track lives in that specific window: the six o'clock train Newark-bound, doors still warm from the last run, a handful of riders who've already made their peace with the day.

The bass comes in first and stays in front the whole ride. Somewhere under the Hudson — somewhere between the low rumble of tunnel pressure and the car tilting slightly on the curve — the guitar opens up into something almost rhythmic, like someone tapping a pattern on a pole without realizing it. By the time the train surfaces near Newark Penn and the first gray-pink light appears over the freight yards, the song has done what the commute does: moved you somewhere without making a speech about it.

[Verse 1] Hoboken platform, half the lights out A coffee cup warming both my hands The fluorescent above the turnstile stutters Like it's not sure it wants to understand We file in quiet, find the window seats Nobody looks for eyes to meet

[Verse 2] Then under the river, under the Hudson The wheels on the rail go low and wide The car rocks once and someone grips the pole A newspaper folded tight beside Journal Square comes up and lets a few out Into the dark before the dawn

[Verse 3] By Newark Penn the sky's gone faintly pink Above the rooftops and the overnight freight We move with purpose, not with hurry A city waking up can wait The doors roll back and cold air finds us We step out into what the morning made