The Small Town Fair

The white moon-thumbnail on a bed of deepening blue
holds court over the chair lined streets by the old general store,
its fading name still fighting transitions on
the deep red bricked building.
Families come, writhing toddlers
tug of war with their mothers,
older children sliding into clumps,
fathers standing serenly.
Antique tractors put-put in procession:
Ford, Allis Chalmers, John Deere, Farmall;
testament to our grandfather’s
ingenuity and stubbornness
and willingness to risk death to feed the world.
Red lights dance against the dusk
behind the Legion carrying the Colors,
as police and firemen lead the real parade:
marching bands, floats, the Republican party
(the only organized party in the county),
groups doing little but throwing shrapnel bursts of
suckers and lollipops, feeding sugar rushes
of every gleeful little girl and boy on the sidewalk.
The fair queen waves and dreams of the jeans
she’ll don at the first chance;
the kids long for the midway,
swirling dizziness and stuffed prizes;
Moms dream of Lutheranburgers and pecan pie;
Dads savor frothy Bud lite dreams
of Country Music beer gardens;
Old timers remember yesterday and
paste tonight in the scrapbooks of their minds.