Mountains on a stage overlooking
The fruit market,
And beside her the road home:
It doesn’t hurt to look at her more,
But yes it does:
And to remember her,
Like a birdbath of honey spilling
Over the watermelons:
Or the same old song that sleeps
Alone in a world
Fitted for her children, and the fairgrounds
Will come back around once a year,
And want to collect her,
And she will pretend to go with them,
As if she were climbing up a ladder into
My misconceived heart,
But then, tenderly,
She will go down again, and return
Home in her thievery,
Counting all of the wonderful things
She managed to steal from the fairgrounds of
My heart.

Robert Rorabeck

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/from-the-fairgrounds/