Chanunpa

Dark night on the corner
of Central Park and 5th,
the hotdog stand is there
same as every other night,
glistening rows of ketchups
mustards mayonnaises relish
frying onions and dogs
the cart lit in neon
like an infantile casino
its grimy surfaces swelling
with buds of living grease
beneath the tubelights
like the rippling of sweat
and steam on televisions
in the apartments above
the scene is dull, grainy
fat Greek's hands moving
surely above the counter
stuffing the cash register
with rough wads of bills
his grey mustache quivering
and tasting the wind
as he licks his lips ―
a black cloud of smoke
comes off the grill
and fills the heaving night
with the smell of flesh.

Beautiful people pass by
and the smoke tangles
in their beautiful hair.