Ann Arbor Art Fair

the fragrance from maple bark
of my dear sweet Ann has been sucked from the air
and replaced with that of fried dough,
and vinyl. the white tents erect
like barbarians circling, waiting to attack
the simple village where the boys and girls
get their fancies from picking flowers.

the streets are flooded like the Second Coming
but i feel no cleanse—instead the wicked walk the earth
in fanny packs and Crocs.

walking a tranny approached me
and asked me if i could donate to a children's fund
but i had no cash so i turned my earphones up
to pretend to ignore him/her—he/she still told me
to have a nice day.

later, a girl wanted to ask me
to give a minute to the environment—
i tried to think of a smart-ass remark,
perhaps about the fact that she had a clipboard
full of empty pages which was deadly
to the trees, but i was too tired
and late for my appointment with Jim anyway
so i turned up my earphones
and kept walking.

i expect nothing but poems
out of these days when the spirits of my Makers
go on holiday, leaving room
for those dreaded Changers.

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