the summer hot dog

you learned

the art

of the summer hot dog

at church

picnics.

the bun,

the relish and mustard

applied

with caution.

you stood in line

beneath

the great oak tree

where

a man in a white

shirt

and suspenders would

tousle your hair.

you were hungry.

sermons did that to you,

kneeling,

then rising,

then kneeling again

in the airless room.

although still absent

of shame

and guilt at that age,

you had a feeling that those

days would come

soon enough,

but here, outside

the church

standing in the dry grass,

you were

hungry, not so much

for worldly

things, or the words

of God.

no. it was real hunger.

you needed food,

and you were next in line,

at last.