The Pie Car

About a freak show and how it met its end.

You’re a wannabe movie queen, with your hair all curled

And a magazine held up to obscure your face,

Sitting by the pie car in a folding chair by yourself

And little did I know, your daddy runs this freak show.

There’s a boy holding an umbrella to shield himself

From the wicked sun

A two-headed boy sitting on his stand, he’s gotten used to

Being gawked at

A girl with three mouths with which to play her kazoo

For the yelling crowd.

It smells like sawdust in the old tent, and the misery of

The performers

You say you hate the show and want to go where all the

Starlets live

Meet me by the pie car at midnight, that’s all the letter says.

I oblige and there you are again, sitting up rigid in

Your folding chair,

The moon casting you in silver to illuminate your


Between your fingers you pinch a book of matches,

And who can say no to you?


It was that we left in the morning, with the burning smell still


And the tent a memory behind us, shivering in the summer air

Maybe it would look like an accident, and maybe no one

Was inside

Telling myself these things is the only way I can sleep at night.

We fled to the land of starlets and started up a new life

But even now, whenever I see a freak show advertised,

I have to count to three and close my eyes

To keep from remembering the paths that I’ve burned

And the smell of the pie car at midnight.

The End

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