Hot Dog
The sun burned wrinkles on his brow,
He'd paid his lousy buck or more;
No more his wages would allow
And concrete falls from foot to floor.
With sigh and longing, lifts his hand;
A sweat-soaked beast- there stands the man;
A precious moment of relief-
A break for lunch at the hotdog stand.
The women keep the kids away
Because his hands are black with dirt
And sweat upon his dusty face
Conceales the darkness of his hurt
That precious bite! Ignoble treat!
... of Dijon mustard; ravaged meat
Does cause a shudder through his frame,
He'd earned this meal, and just the same,
Today's like yesterday and week.
Of hopes and dreams he dares not speak.
He's thankful for this meal, 'tis true.
Won't someone give this man his due?
The Entropod
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