The sun is hot, dusty on my feet.
Tell my father I am coming home.
The county fair, late summer,
it has been years I know
but there is still the kettle corn booth
and the man who sells foam swords
in different colors.
My grown hands are sticky
with the lemon ice cream.
I wander lonely
through the cheaply prized games
and shuddering attractions.
The goats, the chickens,
the proud llamas with the blue
ribbons on the gate.
I stoop among the pigs and whisper
Where have my friends gone?
The last of my money is gone
with the lemon ice cream.
It’s been a while, I know. I see my
classmate’s children run
and scare the new born calf.
Tell my father I am coming home.