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)