On a porch swing sits
The old man Tait
In the silence no rocking breaks the still
Only the rough sulfuric crush
Of a matchstick squeezed between its two lustrous cardboard pages
It was plucked from a dishful on any given bluegrass tuesday night
To light a smoke in the hazy poolhall
Of the local Fine Establishment
Folks are lively from music and bourbon whiskey
Strings and ringing voices drown out serious conversation
Those nights all hands are clean
Bows are tied and shoes are shined
Spanking in the cheery yellow light
It's Fall, in my city, it's no man's land
I'm bored, let's move on
But on the porch swing
Beneath the humming electric lantern flickers
Alone with a heady cherry wood pipe
A gritty hand waves at the fading twilight
Saying, hello darkness
Hello gentle moon
The day is full of bushels and crates and stacks
Bumpy rides past cornfields, pastures
The harvest slowly fills the coffers
Fills the store house up to the rafters
Where fallen apples beard themselves with rusty crispen leaves
Only to be ravaged by some local ants
Tending to their own lilliputian farm
Because no matter what the scale
Sunless times are coming
(Bringing relief from the light of day)