The Tin-Lid Box

[Verse 1]
A wicker handle brittle from the Mobile sun
On a tin-lid box, price tag says a dollar ninety-one.
Saturday morning, just past nine, the air thick with salt and pine.
I lift the latch, a little squeal of rust...
Smells like cedar shavings, and forgotten trust.

[Chorus]
Who throws a good thread away?
Who sells the hours of a day?
This ain't just cotton, this ain't just tin,
It's the damn foundation holding everything in.

[Verse 2]
Inside, a mess of tangled, stubborn grace.
A half-darned sock, a swatch of yellow lace.
A card of pearl snaps, missing number three...
for a little boy's shirt he wore constantly.
"'Now hold still, child,' a voice I almost hear,"
Patching the knee before the cost of a tear.

[Chorus]
Who throws a good thread away?
Who sells the hours of a day?
This ain't just cotton, this ain't just tin,
It's the damn foundation holding everything in.

[Bridge]
Some work you can't see, it just gets done.
A quiet battle, never really won.
Just a holding pattern, a stitch in time,
Worth more than their last forgotten dime.

[Outro]
I put two dollars on the splintered wood.
Took her whole life home, like I knew I should.