Sundown pictures a man who spends his day in a park, a place the poem admits he cannot actually live in. The phrase is quietly blunt. It suggests someone without a home, or at least someone who treats the park as a stand-in for one, though the poem never says so outright. What he can do there is get wine and bark at a fox, two small, slightly absurd acts that sit side by side without comment.
The barking is the odd, memorable moment. It's funny, but it also feels lonely: the man is talking to an animal in its own language, or what he imagines of it. The last lines turn on the phrase "making accommodation," a word usually tied to housing. Here the only accommodation on offer is making peace with nightfall. The mood is calm, wry and a little sad. The speaker doesn't plead or complain, he just watches the light go and gets ready for the dark.