by Brent Lucia
On a beach chair, eating a hotdog,
the palm trees
order us another sunset.
Mai Thai's to paint a past picture
borrowed from another man's dream.
"I'm a hotdog," I tell the waitress.
for my processed meat to hear me.
For the sand to judge my character.
Proud shorelines ignore its guest.
Built to fail, it slouches off its bun,
We are dipped in a set of condiments,
brought to you,
by my body and its dark days.
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