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 
I like this poem very much. What a story it tells . . .
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Thanks, Liz. I have enjoyed county fairs. And the opportunities for eavesdropping! 🙂
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You’re welcome, Bob. I’ve always found county fairs rather sad. Good point about the eavesdropping opportunities!
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Apart from the masterful metaphor, I love the county fair imagery, Bob. So evocative.
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Thanks, Cate. I’ve always found county fairs interesting. The state fair here was also interesting, but I prefer smaller scale spectacles. 🙂
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Me, too! Though the Minnesota State Fair will always have a special place in my heart.
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