Considering the Seesaw

A simple fulcrum, in simple red,

Unique in shape, designed for eight,

Resting solemn in a field of wheat.

Awaiting us, who bring boombox blaring

To ride in rhythm to a foreign place.

Where all is well, there’s indoor plumbing,

Electrics and something to eat.

A place we don’t have to argue,

We can just ride into the gold of

Sunset, the brightest part of night.

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