IT GOES BACK UP BEFORE DARK

A spreader bar comes down on a Tuesday and is back up by six, and everybody on the block learns to read the clock.

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IT GOES BACK UP BEFORE DARK lyrics

Artist-supplied lyric sheet, matched by title. The sheet may differ from this released performance. Production notes and alternate promotional cuts are omitted.

Read the lyric sheet

Chorus

Spreader bar lock, that's the only clock in here, Tuesday it come down, and by six it reappear, She got a week she started counting, he ain't said a word, It goes back up before dark - I just watch, I ain't heard. Nine minutes sit between the window and the wall. His palms leave a clean round moon inside the dust. Her printer cuts a narrow slip she never shows. It goes back up before dark.

Verse 1

I came to price a heel, ten minutes on the bench, Kept the ticket with the purple edge. I don't own this counter, don't know either name, No favor in my pocket, no percentage in the game. Saw him wheel the ladder through the propped front door, Saw her thumb a paper tally underneath the drawer. I saw what each one carried, what the room allowed. No judge or family; I'm a chair inside the crowd. Receipt light blinks. Door chime breathes. Two favors carrying two meanings.

Verse 2

Second week of March, she wrote the first one down. Nine-oh-two, work boots waited, then turned around. The wall said eight fifty-three; keys stayed in the drawer. Next week, a nurse knocked, then crossed the floor. One a week, near enough; the thermal paper knows. She holds the running total where no kindness goes. Show him, and she prices what he offered as a gift. Her pencil blames the clock; her jaw is set past it.

Chorus

Verse 3

First Tuesday. Van door. Rubber feet on tile. Props the entrance with a paint can for a while. Sets the ladder wide; the spreader bar kicks back. Tries again; the hinge bites shut with one clean clap. Climbs three rungs and lifts the clock from one small nail. Opens the brass plate, oils a tooth, and winds the key. Sets both hands against the watch beneath his sleeve. Hangs it, tests the rungs, folds them, wipes the sill.

Bridge

Nine minutes. One a week. Since the second week of March. Printer cools into the room.

Verse 4

Two years, first Tuesday, never wrote a bill, Never took the coffee or the singles by the till. Nobody said stop; he took the quiet as a yes. A favor left till morning feels like work left on a desk. His knees pay each rung; his wrist pays for the key. Calls it staying useful, nothing they owe. An old shop key rides the lining of his coat. He thumbs two worn initials, then he clears his throat.

Chorus

Verse 5

Next first Tuesday, no van at the curb. No rubber feet, no paint can, no familiar word. At eight fifty-nine, she checks her phone against the face. Both minute hands arrive together. A work boot finds the OPEN sign on time. She prints at nine-oh-one and lets the paper wind. No circle round the date, no total shown or crossed. The clock keeps proper time. Nobody claims the cost.

Outro

Next month, the wall wears one clean circle for an hour. By dusk, the clock is hanging from its single nail. He tucks the brass key by the watch beneath his sleeve. She turns the tally face-down as the ladder folds shut.

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