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.