My mother is standing on the little tooth wheel of the pie cart. She has been warned never to visit houses on wheels, never to associate with brown paper bags.
The pie cart wears a mourning cap. He raises it to the hearse. He raises it to the trade waste he traps. He is full of respect. When he asks short or sweet, he means pastry. The fluted kind. Black birds sing to his pies.
The pie cart shows my mother how to make meat go further. He shows her how to slip an eggcup under a blanket of pastry and make a rosette.
My mother unpins her hat.