It comes to town but once a year,
and it’s the only thing that comes at all—
hi-beams cast long shadows as they
turn into the lot, the crunch of gravel
under tires. Tickets!
The smell of cotton candy
and WD-40, the indiscernible screams
of children, happy or otherwise. The hay
littered dirt, the lemonade from a waxed cup
burns my throat. I feel like being a little bad—
I bum a smoke from the Gravitron guy. Perhaps
I’ll kiss a stranger on the Ferris wheel,
if they have a piece of Juicy Fruit. Are they still a stranger if their name is on the back of their belt?