Princess Kay of the Milky Way . . .
Fairground royalty, she’s our
Midwestern sweetie, a dairyland diva —
with apple cheeks rosy and golden hair flowing —
breathy and beguiling, ruler of the day.
Tiny beads of sweat glisten on her bosom,
like dew drops on melons,
with the smell of freshly mown hay.
Atop a float, beneath a rhinestone crown,
white-gloved, waving to the crowd,
throwing candy, blowing kisses
to reaching, awestruck children thronging all around.
Neither cold grey rain nor sticky summer swelter
can make her white-capped smile waver;
with misty eyes, she’s black and blue and brave —
as golf ball-size hailstones pelt her.
Then . . .finally, the anticipated magic moment . . .
the highest tribute, honor, accolade . . .
a sculpture carved in fat, a butter bust
on a silver tray, in a cold glass case displayed.
Just ten short days of glory — only to become
some back room, bar room boast,
“Yessir, fellas, this morning I had her, right there on the table,
Princess Kay on toast!”
— Elaine Pedersen ©