The Bus Stops Here
Your mind is a county fair
but the entrance shifts
every time I approach, and
the rides fade or hum away
into the pastures, long past
their second mowing, bales
rolled and stacked two-high.
When you speak, I hear instead
tractors bogged-down
in the pull, or greased shoats
squirting free through children’s
arms – no prize too little, none
too great – words cracked and
twisted into other possibilities.
We watch the races, and the
horses round the curve
but never reach the finish, as
the haze becomes a blanket
we lie on, munching corn
dogs and funnel cakes among
the ant mounds and debris.
You ask what happened to the
cow lady, whether I prefer anthrax
to rabies, and if we’ll be forced to
walk home or hitch. I don’t know,
I say. Neither. The bus stops here.
* * *
“The Bus Stops Here” was first published in Juke Joint, in March 2020.
O at the Edges 
Love the opening lines – food for thought.
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Thanks, VJ. County fairs provide much food for thought!
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Yes. Good people watching. Welcome.
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Evocative and mysterious, as is so often the case with your beautiful work, Bob. Plus, in this case, I love the sensory reminders of a county fair.
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I love small county fairs! But I must admit that none of the fairs I’ve attended in small town Texas had bus service…
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Fascinating dream-like shifts in this poem. Find myself somewhat fearful of getting on that bus (when/if it arrives). Maybe the bus is wake-up clarity and the dream state offers wider possibilities?
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I’ve walked on a few buses that I wish I hadn’t…but this one might be different.
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