No More Chimes

The sun is lower, thin and gold,

the story of summer, getting old.

I sit out here, on the splintered wood,

and listen, like I always should.

But the music box, that looping tune,

it doesn't float beneath the moon

or hum along the hot asphalt.

It's gone now, not its usual fault

of being late, or out of view.

It's simply finished, through and through.

The air is cool, the street is bare,

no jingle cutting through the air.

Just this quiet, growing deep,

a promise summer couldn't keep.

And I remember, then, the taste,

of something melting, going to waste.