[Intro]
(Steady waltz, acoustic guitar and pedal steel, idling diesel engine hum underneath)

[Verse 1]
Tuesday morning, thermos full and black,
F-150 humming down Memorial track,
The air smells of frost and two-cycle mix,
I park by the lumber and walk through the sticks.
Creased open wide, the pine-sawdust scent pulls me inside,
And there at the counter, a familiar face,
No need for a handshake, just a nod in place.

[Chorus]
It's my Tuesday pilgrimage, sacred and plain,
To the counter where brass fittings bear the strain,
I measure my years by the threads that I've spun,
And the bond's straighter than a fresh two-by-four's run.

[Verse 2]
Last week I needed a half-inch elbow brass,
Got halfway home and remembered—alas,
I turned back around, the diesel still warm,
He held up the bag with that knowing calm.
"Figured you'd forget," he said with a grin,
"Third time this month, but you still get the win."
We laughed like two men who know frost and clay,
Another part missing, another saved day.

[Chorus]
It's my Tuesday pilgrimage, sacred and plain,
To the counter where brass fittings bear the strain,
I measure my years by the threads that I've spun,
And the bond's straighter than a fresh two-by-four's run.

[Bridge]
The slab outside's heaving where silver maples grow,
But inside this store, the trust won't go,
Through re-threading, patching, and epoxy cure,
The counterman knows what the years endure.
The counterman knows what the years endure.

[Outro]
(Spoken, over waltz and fading diesel rumble)
"See you next Tuesday, Giuseppe."
"And I'll probably forget the same part again."
(laugh, engine shuts off)