Ode to big tex

Isabel Daniel || Fall 2020

One ticket on the DART to the fairgrounds, please.
Right up to the gates more glorious than heaven’s
for a single perfect day. 
Entering under the boulevard arch I hear him
calling out Howdy, folks! with a friendly, animatronic wave 
welcoming us into the heart of the only bustling crowd
I can stomach.

Oh, where to begin this year?
It’s north to the pig races and east to the midway
on a map sprawling out across 300 acres
from the cotton bowl to the auto show,
between the Belgian waffle melodies
and the children’s farm I’ve long outgrown.
We marvel at the large cows 
and even larger butter sculptures
gunning for the blue first prize ribbon.

The sun shines too brightly for autumn
lighting up the park but never breaking a sweat
illuminating the frying oil glistening on 
funnel cakes, corny dogs, turkey legs, tater twisters, 
comfortably gorged on the pride
of being awarded most creative dish.

I am a piece of fried bubble gum
stretched out by the miles of people
in line to sink their teeth into making memories.
I move through stadium stands and stables
in a red gingham paper food tray
taking a bite out of everything I can see:
5 tickets for a fresh brewed root beer 
10 tickets for a fried grilled cheese 
25 tickets for the Texas Star to send you to the sky;

the world below us is spinning on an axis of its own,
whizzing rides and flashing lights and dizzying sights,
but we are 60 stories in the marbled clouds
suspended slowly over the glowing neon skyline.
Reunion Tower is in the distance, but my trip there won’t come until later.
Tonight there is only laughter and feasting and a cowboy, 
and for once home is a lone star state.