Porch Sitting Hour: The Six O'Clock Wave

Lyrics

Six P.M.
The sun is making long excuses down St. Charles Avenue.
My work is put away.
This wooden chair knows the shape of my back.
The tall glass of tea is sweating on the little iron table.
Just breathing.
Just waiting for the neighborhood to exhale with me.
And here it comes.
The first one. A leash, a Golden Retriever pulling just a little.
The jingle of a tag I can hear from thirty feet away.
The tired-but-happy look on a familiar face.
He's not looking for me, not really.
But he knows I'll be here.
It's the six o'clock wave.
The mandatory hello.
The unspoken law of the Virginia Highland plateau.
You lift a hand, you nod your head.
A contract we never signed, but always understood.
The six o'clock wave.
A bicycle with a wobbly training wheel.
A nod and a slight smile from the runner in gray shorts.
That counts. We all know that counts.
Her hands are busy with her rhythm.
My hand is busy with this cold, wet glass.
But we see each other.
They say Grizzard wrote about this kind of thing.
But he never wrote about the day you miss.
When the chair stays empty and the glass stays in the kitchen.
And the next evening, a kind voice asks,
"Hey, everything alright? Didn't see you out yesterday."
It's a census taken with the eyes.
A quiet way of holding on.
It's the six o'clock wave.
The mandatory hello.
The unspoken law of the Virginia Highland plateau.
You lift a hand, you nod your head.
A contract we never signed, but always understood.
The six o'clock wave.
The streetlamps are thinking about turning on.
The jasmine is louder in the dark.
Just one more.
A shadow with a smaller shadow at its feet.
My hand, a silhouette against the coming night.