The Morning of the Sandwich Fair
by Robert H. Demaree_Jr.

    It is the morning of the Sandwich Fair.
    Summer people come back to New Hampshire in October:
    A giddy sense of trespass
    Where the tangents of everyday lives touch, briefly.
    We are sharers of space, of holy ground,
    Eavesdroppers, bound by the accident of juxtaposition,
    By random consecutiveness.
    At the craft shop mothers with children of different ages
    Mill about. The women order wedding presents
    With a certain vacant self-absorption.
    The children have opted out of the pewtersmith’s tour;
    They careen around the shop, handling the merchandise
    And each other: home schoolers on an outing, we conclude.
    At the restaurant four classmates,
    Over fifty but not quite our age,
    Critique a class reunion.
    They lament poor attendance at the dinner,
    The choice of entree, time’s unkindness.
    We drive on, regarding each maple, each sumac
    As though leaves might not turn again.
    At the Sandwich Fair Amanda Glidden awaits the pony pulling,
    Her sheep judged runners up to best of show.

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