Remember the milk-man of old,
Stoic, trudging, rough and bearded, whipping a half-starved beast,
Ass, Cow, or Horse, plodding along,
Rusted bell dully clapping out his coming and going,
Or white-suited, black-tied, Rockwell iconic,
a bottle a day, stocks are up!, bone for the dog,

so steady-on and dogged, standing for us all
travails the noble stooping frame of our overlooked street-corner hero

O Hot Dog Man!

His steel conveyance rattling wheel for replaced-and-uneven wheel
over cracked and root-ruptured pavement,
unwashed metal box atop fitful frankenstein heating element,
torn stickers and loose hinges, the royal carriage of
countless wieners
stacked and iced, ready for a hot pilfered steel tray
and a tight wrap and roll through
thin bandages of pink and white festive pigflesh
sauteed among smoking wheels of pepper and onion
pops and sizzles, unsanitized
crackles, but does not fully cook
embraced by a flaccid
sweaty bun
of enriched white bread.

I see you, Hot Dog Man,
Not in your mustard, but in you I trust.
Your relish worries me, but I relish you.
The ketchup is brown and crusty, but I’ll catch up
to you
any day.

Wheel thy noisy fucking cart
transmit thy frozen wieners
from the depths of unwashed box
to hot pan perched on stolen shopping cart
thou unwashed wiener man!
Lay down my sausage, pork it up in ribbons,
flip it around ‘twixt savory raw bulbs and rich tomati
that it may gain the smoke of those elusive vegetants.

A pickle is arrogant
Affront me not with a pickle
I don’t want a fucking pickle

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