Glass Poetry Press

Volume Two Issue Three

Jenn Blair

When a Syracuse Winter Ends

people start streaming out of sad houses get in their cars and come buy a hot dog. My own granddad once said hot dogs are all elbows and assholes and mom exclaimed and I laughed and he grinned, incorrigible, triumphant, in his chair. The summer before we buried him. When a Syracuse Winter ends wet rags wipe dust off mustard bottles and photos of minor movie stars, signed and blue and faded. He chews in the corner booth, each swallow harder than the last. Don't you hate it. Crying. Sitting armed with slaw and knowledge, there in the very seat where you sat, a young dumb child.