Supper At Sundown

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 lose 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