The State Fair

We drove to Syracuse every August
for the oldest in the country. Canopied
under a black and orange booth,
you bored teens and captivated parents
with your recycled recruiter’s speech.
You were a salesman. People liked you.

You had statistics memorized:
85% graduate in four years, 96% receive
some form of financial aid— the truth
stretched. But your handshake
and penny loafers were so convincing.
And so was I— ten-year-old daughter

sitting in a lawn chair, wearing a nametag.
I felt important passing out SUNY pennants
and pins. My tanned thighs stuck
to the criss-cross plastic of the seat,
as summer blew through the barn doors
smelling of manure and fried dough.

During your break we gambled on games.
Men and women wearing canvas
waist aprons shouted at us like auctioneers
advertising the art of deception.
They jingled change in their pockets,
pointed to the grand prize.

We tossed quarters into tiny
mouthed teacups, threw darts
at deflated balloons, left defeated
with a plastic bag in hand, half-dead
goldfish swimming circles inside,
our backs to the life-sized gorilla

still perched high on its shelf.