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.