Out on the edge, a barn of certain age
Sits waiting, though abandoned long ago.
I’d bring him comfort, if I could assuage
His loneliness with anything I know:
But he’s a stolid, stoic sort of sage,
Who takes his comfort where he finds it. So —
Instead, I look inside to where the light
Is shining on the lumber with regret;
I think it’s likely spooky here at night,
The kind of place that friends go on a bet
You’re pranking, watching as they reach full flight
After the joke is sprung you lately set.
The barn, though, disapproves this sort of joke:
He’s got his dignity, this lonely bloke —