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.