State of a Fair

Lisa Wells

Pig trough says, spill your trouble here.
Allow these candy clouds to cotton
the sting.

              Your man’s a sad balloon

and love was an afternoon hovered over
the whack-a-mole. It was precisely that

systematic vanishing
gave rise to the rubber mallet

and four white knuckles
rapped on wood.

If you don’t know what to do now
with your hands, consider the terror

pealing from the coasters.
           Descent demands you stick-em-up.

                                            Metal splinter glints
above, sun-struck jet slicing the ether
                                 completely free to travel

from the turbulence,
           inveigled to stay aloft
                      on fair-weather prayer.

                              Dear bright lure
      softly bobbing on the void,
spare us this stick

of deep fried butter, this pie-spiked shake.
Our tickers can only take so much.

The children comfort their cones
with such gentle tongues

you’d think the ice cream was injured.
                           Scant tantrums in this

                      queue. Our helices unspool
but no life’s long enough to host the evolution

and no one’s stepping out of line.
When enervation strikes, just lid your eyes

and apply an ounce of pressure:
you can visit space any time you like.