The Last Sunday of the Fair

Benjamin Jenkins, poem, poems, poetry, writing

At the Deerfield Fair

My Brother and I

Play a game of I-Spy

Tallying the points in our head.

We laugh and we shuffle to mood.

 

Leopard print tattoos = 5.    Cowboy boots = 2.

Tattoos of cowboy boots in leopard print = 100.

The man with a megaphone and the collie dogs corralling a heard of ducks = 777.

 

We laugh and we shuffle while

Sheriffs direct the ebb and flow of the crowd

Trying to appear loud.

As loud as the tradition we tread.

A loud hat with a badge dazzles the onlooker

Leashing the might of the sun.

Like the prize dazzles the couple near the B.B. Guns.

 

We laugh and we shuffle right along

Shoveling cheese fries into our face

With white plastic utensils.

The hornets gravitate

Towards the mounds of plastic

Paper, napkins, fried starch and soda.

They look like puffs of milkweed tumbling

Amongst the smell of sweet popcorn and livestock.

 

One big dust puddle.

Parked cars, butt cracks, and diesel fuel.

The bright blue sky stretching overhead

So encompassing it makes your stomach tickle.

We paid eighty dollars to marvel for thirty minutes.

The attracted more intriguing than the attractions.

We laugh and we shuffle our way home.

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