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Supper At Sundown - Buck 65

I walked over sidewalk street by warehouse

Through dark brown mud

One little dandy lion swayed up from the crack

There ways dirt in it The crack not the dandy lion

This is what I am doing right now

Not bowling not standing on your face

Walking slower than slaves

Faster than forests disappear

Damp cardboard scattered what-nots

Suddenly I appeared in front of the fence

If you were a small metal box with a hole in it

Floating five and a half feet off the ground

Six feet from the fence

You would have seen me motion by

Through time and space

I would not have cared about you or the fence

It was eight feet tall

One sixteenth inch thick corrugated sheet metal

With a gray primer finish

Seeing that I wondered

Is it true that you couldn't find the scissors

Although it rained earlier

The paper note was not destroyed

Part of a note that I found on the drying

Spottily sunny ground

With brown skies over it and a spot of sun

The note apparently it was ripped off

The bottom of a letter by a parent

She had planned to loose some weight this summer

It said

I thought about making it into something

You can't even think that I know about

The broken down swing set sat solemnly

Sideways in the center of the street

Tipped over And suddenly nothing happened

It was then that I planned to dissemble

Myself and I new that it would not

Always be supper at sundown