Seagulls squawked louder than
a jet engine, as mustard dripped
from the fingers of a giant.
He wore a crown of relish,
pickles and dreams dancing.
In the corner, a man cried
tears of ketchup, his dreams
crumbled like stale buns.
He once believed in miracles,
now he just believed in digestion.
The crowd roared, a symphony
of belches and applause, as
the hot dog king stood tall.
His stomach a bottomless pit,
his heart a swollen balloon.
Victory tastes like brine,
he muttered to his shoes,
a parade of frankfurters
marching through his veins,
each one a triumph, each one
a mystery to his mother,
who watched from the bleachers,
knitting a scarf of disbelief.
She whispered his name softly,
as if casting a spell of love.
Meanwhile, the seagulls
continued their opera,
and the hot dog king
walked into the sunset,
burping the tune of champions.