My last evening energy,
wasted on wishing
for your cryptic call.
But melodic music
drew me in too deep
where I knew I shouldn’t wade.
Tonight I sway my skirt,
a subtle slippery wave
willing you to wander by.
Yet no tap settles on my shoulder,
no lonely dashing dancer
coming to cut in.
I’ll be the juicy joke,
the horrid headline
in tomorrow’s tell-tale paper.
Yet tonight I tempt,
my princess parade wave
lost in your laughter.
This small town festival
is a celebration of chicken
baked beans and vets
that fills this otherwise
empty town with life
where children are encouraged
to sit in the gutter
and take candy from strangers.
The parade goes by
filling the air with exhaust
as Shriner men drive
in crazy pursuit
of the mini car ahead
because it is fun to see
how close they come to crashing.
Coolers were packed
and blankets thrown out
as the grassy front yards
are filling with swearing
men drinking and laughing
and whistling at women.
Pretty girls ride floats
in fancy ball gowns
sashed and proudly labeled
Miss Eleva and Her Court
as they synchronize their waves
to let little girls know
what they can aspire to.
Old women take tickets
for overpriced chicken
while handing you a napkin
and directing you to
enjoy it before you get in
another line to wait
for the nearest port-a-potty.
Late into the night
as the carney lights go dark
the beer tent is empty,
and back at the camper
another baby is conceived
answering the question:
Which came first,
the chicken or the egg?
It was the chicken,
damn good broiler chicken.