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,
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.