the last day of the fair

It's cold and rainy and all the vendors and barkers are talking to each other about packing up and moving on. No-one's trying to shoot out the tiny red star at the center of the target or to knock over the pyramid of coke bottles or to fish one of the yelllow plastic ducks out of the pool. No-one's looking at the state's biggest pumpkin or the quilt with the red ribbon pinned to it. "A winner every time," a man in a hooded sweatshirt calls out as we walk by, but he doesn't raise his head. Everywhere, children in raincoats are crying. The carousel's stopped spinning and the ferris wheel is still. The garish colors of the signs seem paler, dimmed by the greying sky. It's like when the house lights go on after a movie, and you can see the popcorn on the floor and the gum stuck to the bottom of the seats. The pigs and goats are sleeping on the straw in their stalls. "Go home," I want to say, "Go home, everybody. Go home already. It's over."