Drove down the 401,
past that old J.M. Schneider sign.
Thirty minutes left 'til home,
just like every other time.
Sports World used to flag you down,
red and white slide at the edge of town,
the burlap sacks beside the go-kart whine —
you were almost home, just down the line.
It's box stores with their signs in a row,
a parking lot where the kids used to go.
I slowed way down —
damn near missed my own hometown.
This town is full of ghosts.
New names on the glass.
Same brick. Same light.
Old footprints in the sidewalk.
They still fit my stride.
Hidden in plain sight.
Georgie's backroom, thick with smoke I can still taste,
quarters lined up on the glass to save your place.
Too old for the park, too young for the bar,
followed that silver ball 'til well past dark.
Papered-over windows, nobody hanging around —
Friday night, King Street, doesn't make a sound.
Pop the Gator, up the poster stairs, a flight above the street —
Buddy Guy and Koko Taylor, and Mel Brown holding the beat.
Fifteen-foot ceilings, a room you felt down in your chest,
'til the doors closed in ninety-four and they laid it all to rest.
But this one they didn't pave — they cast the man in bronze,
sat Mel on a bench out front, guitar across his knee.
The one ghost this town kept —
and still, nobody stops to see.
This town is full of ghosts.
New names on the glass.
Same brick. Same light.
Old footprints in the sidewalk.
They still fit my stride.
Hidden in plain sight.
Sam the Record Man — that big record turning up above the door.
I'd spend my Saturdays buried in those bins and still go back for more.
Some kid behind the counter always knew a band I had to hear —
that's where I found the songs that got me through the year.
Then the lights went out…
and the sign came down…
Sam became another ghost
in this town.
The Dairy Bar on Courtland — Grandpa's hand in mine,
a soft-serve cone on Tuesday, grease spots down the side.
It's a little kitchen now, some new folks and a sign,
and I hope they make a go of it — I truly hope they thrive.
I cupped my hands against the glass —
and God, the little boy's still here,
holding tight to a hand
that hasn't held mine in years.
Got back on the 401,
past that old J.M. Schneider sign,
thirty minutes out from home —
and nothing like the last time.
This town is full of ghosts,
hidden in plain sight.
And I might be the last one left to see them
as I fade into the night.