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The Freak

Poetry & Prose | March 7, 2010

Behind a glass wall
I watched a carnival
for years.

Again, children with gaping mouths
devour cotton candy,
ride ponies in circles.
In great packs they marvel as
a clown juggles chainsaws.
Most, though, peer into
the dark hut with metal bars.
I press against the glass and
see two emerald eyes there within.

Again, the children sidle towards
the red-striped tent in the distance;
I want so much to go with them.
The field clears,
save for the ponies panting,
the clown dabbing sweat from his neck and
delicately scratching his painted nose.
In the hut, the freak
glares at me
like some sideshow spectacle.
Like the joke’s on me.

I search once more for
some hammer or ticket or gun, but have tried
everywhere before.