329 South Hill Street: five thirty six

The five o'clock sun is bleeding
Through the lace curtains
Upon the wall across the Wyeth print
Hanging there in its stoicism
And the neighborly farmers
Are leaning against their truck
Solemnly watching the end of their day,
Somber and grey and the blues
Are playing in my ears
To celebrate the end of this day
And the season dying in the arms
Of this cold and dreary January,
The sweet taste of old bourbon
Caressing my tongue, adding to the harmony.