They know the price of everything,
Hatchet to rake, handsaw to lantern,
Pflueger reel to Peters shell.
Prices go up through the years.
They always keep track.
So they know what it costs
To chop, to burn a pile of leaves,
To let the blade drift through a plank
Welling yellow sawdust,
To light a cold barn, to kill.
All summer long, the gas heater burns
Above the store where they sit at noon.
Where we sit, much obliged
By blood to stifle and ache
From nothing to say.
Flames waver blue behind the isinglass.
They know the price of gas, too,
But the world gets colder through the years.
I know that now, but knowing it,
I still could not wait to run away.
