Circus Love
by Paul Gilmartin
“Last call,” announced the barkeep
and then their eyes did meet.
Betty the Bearded Lady
and Tom the Four-inch Freak.
Tom lowered his voice and made a pass,
“What’re you doin’ later?”
Betty thought as she stroked her beard,
“Nothin’ sweet potater.”
People pointed, jokes were made,
but it fell on four deaf ears.
Tom thrust his tiny shoulders back,
and ignored the painful jeers.
“Betty,” he said, “The world can be
such a cruel, unfeeling place.”
She said, “I know my little punkin’,”
and kissed his tiny face.
She carried him through the parking lot,
to the woods that lay beyond.
Never before had either felt
such an instant common bond.
“Betty,” he said, gazing down at his tiny platform shoe,
“Tonight I would like nothing more
than to make sweet love to you.”
She said, “I’m a virgin.”
He said, “So am I.”
She said, “Don’t you think that’s weird?”
He said, “Not really, I’m four inches tall
and, you know, you’ve got the beard.”
She pressed him tight against her bosom,
he inhaled her perfumed air.
He covered her neck with tiny hickies,
and stroked her facial hair.
The moonlight danced off his cowboy hat,
she giggled and she swayed.
She undid his tiny rhinestone belt.
A cricket looked away.
She set him down, unzipped her dress,
still tipsy from the booze.
She tripped pulling off her panties,
and crushed him with her shoes.
Bearded Betty never married.
Her mistake sure took its toll.
She still owns that pair of shoes,
and Tom’s still in her sole.
You're welcome.