Some things, thankfully, never change.
Nice to have constants in our lives.
Like the local fare at the local fair
Where tradition thrives and good times survive.
Every year we saddle up to make our fateful trek
Through old familiar blocks of neighborhoods.
A sojourn of nostalgic measure, habit more or less,
A sampling of sorts of local goods.
Strolling leisurely through the park
Where artisans display their craft,
Music wafting through the air,
A baby cried, a jester laughed.
Becoming an observer to a passive fashion show,
Aimlessly we stroll just to get nearer,
Wond'ring what possesses some folks to go out in public.
Do these people even own a mirror?
Fashion statements, I suppose,
Meant to be provocative,
Not judgmental, just amused.
Let folks live as they would live.
Tattoos shine in bold display on
Arms and shoulders, legs and breasts.
Rag tops, flop hats, baby strollers
Roam the midway east to west.
Grab some fries and lemonade,
Corn dog, burger on a bun.
One last look, a sweep nostalgic.
Turn and go... The day is done.
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