by Andrea Auten
It dawns later
seeing bustling strangers
tinseled in tourist trappings.
Neon vested workers spray paint
booth numbers for tomorrow’s Fair.
Pork verde with tortilla and a small sweet
street easy people sauntering—
not a normal weekend crowd—
around the coffee huts and our
Toothless women, large
lumbering calves, big as thighs.
Skinny ones, quick-stepped, tatted,
prancing in and out of storefronts stopping
to survey the grand-opened Inn.
Gunmetal moist glinting sidewalks
reflect a grey sky. Upturned leaves,
a clove aroma of earth and autumn mush,
make rainy mud pie
offerings for boot treads.
Vendors walk the beat, pre-game day
girding up for three am shifts. A rest before
roasted nuts, macramé belts, wooden stick furniture
polish made from almond oil, cloth bags and
drums, dancing hallelujah.
They will arrive, all kinds.
Human contact bumping each other, high spirits,
no car street walk, savoring the smell of mingled cultures.
Lemon shake-up, curry, patchouli and body odor, colors of skin enmeshed.
Unite us new and pure in this gathering.