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THE GAMBLER
I took a chance.
I became invisible.
I crept under his sundried skin,
through nicotine-stained fingertips,
down to his sandaled feet,
up to the roots of his neglected graying hair.
I felt the Marlboro burn as he inhaled
followed by the Heineken coolness
that tumbled down his throat.
I blocked out the casino clamor
of bells and voices.
I saw no one -
barely a glimpse of the waitress
as money was exchanged for a bottle.
I was in tune with the promise
of the machine.
I knew the jackpot was mine.
Any minute now.
Any day now.
8/10/2000
Another Year at the County Fair
Traffic slows on 13th Street -
carsfull of fairgoers deciding
whether to stop for the show.
I brave my way across the street
to the ticket booth.
Hand over some cash
for a small ticket
Suddenly, I'm there with the crowds -
amazed by the Willie Nelson fans
who will sit on these metal bleachers
in the hot sun for at least another hour -
waiting.
Winding my way through
ride lines
& food lines
to find my line.
I spot the "Carmel Apple" sign.
Eureka!
Wait. Wait. Wait.
Worth the wait?!
Always.
At last paper dish
dripping carmel
juicy apple -
a fistful of flimsy (already sticky)
paper napkins -
I search for shade.
Find a spot -
focus on this sweet
once-a-year treat
and listen to the almost enthusiastic
bingo caller.
EWEB booth with icy cold water
rescues my teeth
from too much
too sweet
too wonderful.
Crowds. Crowds.
Time for the indoor exhibits.
The hanging quilts beckon to me,
but I'm distracted
by the case of hopeful pie slices -
Wonder at the still-intact
2nd place coconut cream
and marvel at the slow-sliding chocolate
and meringue toppings.
Persistent flies are baffled
by white netting
floating above all that sugar.
Blue-ribboned quart of canned pears -
not even close to the beauty
of Mom's proud rows of jams and jellies
lining the garage shelves.
Canned beef.
Canned sausage.
Canned turkey -
All beyond the vision of written words.
Rhubarb jelly?
I'm guessing it's orange jello
masquerading for the fair.
A little girl's mother says,
"you can smell, but don't touch" -
curious nose edges toward
each white plastic plateful
of tiny stale cookies.
A favorite -
the Junior Entry Decorated Cakes.
BRIGHT oranges,
lime greens
and reddest reds -
Unreal icing coats baked delights.
Half-empty hall -
Here you can buy comfort mattresses, politics, mary kay,
slicer-dicers, wireless phones, ice cream cones, cheap
jewelry, super mops, master gardeners, vinyl siding,
pepsi, pepsi . . .
AMERICA -
all right here at the county fair.
Sell. Sell. Sell.
Ease outside -
sobbing babies,
tinny Willie Nelson tunes,
bells ringing on rides.
Ferris wheel in the clouds.
A spin through the grange exhibits -
an earthy reminder
of life
surrounded by carnival glitz.
Real food - for display only.
Bring on the cotton candy,
fried onion rings,
corndogs.
Outside again.
Thoughts scatter amidst the wild rides.
I hold my breath -
my heart pounds -
I stay on the ground.
I wander among the Willie Nelson fans-
swear-to-God -
above the stage -
"www.willienelson.com" -
Turn to look up into
the face of a majestic Native American
eating corn on the cob -
what does he think of
this crowd-pleasing "cowboy"?
The barn scene.
Pygmy goats on tired short legs -
they've had enough noise
and children's curious pokes -
a year's worth in a week.
Fat sausage-like sleeping pigs -
ears twitching in slumber.
I smell the barbecuing chicken -
hear the roosters crow their
mournful call to lost brothers.
Can't face 'em alive.
Exit.
People in every direction.
Where do they all come from?
Will they be back next year?
8/20/2000
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(c) Marie L. Nemir 2000
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