Hot Dogs

As a baby,
My mother gave me a hot dog
Right out of the plastic
Packaging, newly cut,
To hold in my little fist,
And I chewed
As best I could
With new teeth,
Tiny little, white chiclets
In my mouth.

And I acquired a fresh obsession
Throughout the years,
That carried me
From ballparks in Murphy Candler Park
To Fulton County Stadium and Turner Field,
To state parks in Kentucky,
Tennessee, Mississippi and Georgia,
From City Park in Griffin, Georgia to Piedmont Park in Atlanta
And there at Costco, a stand waiting for me after I paid,
From fresh-cut backyards in Summertime
To ill-kempt vendors
Along the refuse-riddled streets
Of the French Quarter, late at night,
Or outside an office building, at lunch,
In Atlanta, Chicago or New York.

And back to my mother's kitchen,
Where a pack of hotdogs or sausages
Always seems to await me,
At lunch time or supper,
From the meat drawer
Below the beer bottles,
Right behind the dill pickles
In the refrigerator
Back home.