the hot dog contest

you decide not to enter
the hot dog eating contest this year
at the company picnic.
the long night
at the hospital last 4th of july,
has cured you of that idea.
sure, it made you a star
in the office,
how the women swooned
at the sight of your enormous
pale belly, gurgling
with beef franks, hardly
chewed. your star spangled
shirt pulled up, stretched
to its polyester limit.
how they pointed at the pictures
on the bulletin board that monday
of you in your mustard
and relish covered
t-shirt. a piece of art
that would make Jackson Pollock
proud. you on the gurney being
rolled away into
the ambulance, your hand
up giving the victory sign with
a smile creased across
your bloated face.
a piece of bun stuck
to your cheek.