Aside from the bustling farm life
and the funnel cake and the screams
spinning down from the Jackhammer
and, of course, the ceremonial milking
of the oreo cow, aside from the surprising
absence of pink on the prize-winning pig’s
nose, O, and that amazing and vibrating
chick-thick egg and the way the chicks
as a whole started to look a little like
corn muffins, but we were getting hungry
by then, and had already weighed
the benefits between tropical or chocolate
topping, and the stilt-walker dressed
as Abe Lincoln and the stilt-walker
dressed as Jackie Robinson were taking
a smoke, and maybe the sword-swallower
was taking a shit; once, my father stuck
a curtain rod down his throat, but we were
never that dumb, we were kids, we were
hot and bored, and all the lines were long.