Day Three

State Fair

A row
of bearded
pie-eating gallants,
the moon a packaged pad
of butter
in an old man's pocket
at a buffet line.

Baskets of deep-fried
ferris wheel riders
dripping oil onto
the head of
prize pig
with her symmetrical
nipples, roasting
on a spit.

Me the apple
in her mouth,
red and hot
with shame
for having entered that tent
and staring too long
at the man with the
reflective forehead.