To a Street Hot Dog

by Jordan Turkenkopf

As I take the first bite I contemplate the perfection you have attained in your form. Bread wraps meat in an all-encompassing manner with ketchup between the layers. I still taste it all but my hands do not get messy. The translucent waxed paper is but a suggestion of extra protection, and unwrapping its contents is a feast for the nose. Instantly I smelled the wonders that are the street hot dog.
The dog is steamed and the ketchup bears no brand-name, but together these items create a symphony of flavor unmatched by the homemade. Writing these words make my mouth yearn for the second bite, so I rest in my typing for a bit. That second taste is tangy and sweet; the anticipation from the first only heightens the quality. Now the aftertaste is drawing me to take another, and so I will. It is an asymmetrical sensation with the dry flaky bun on one side of my mouth, the juicy dog in the center and the soggy ketchup on the other side, but it is one that fills me with great joy nonetheless.
The addictiveness pulls me in once more, but I fear my bites bring certain doom. Not doom of my soul or my stomach but doom of my meaty companion. For the paradox of the street hot dog is that the more I eat the less remains, and it woes me to think it. In fact, as I write this I see my dog dwindling in size, it is so sweet to enjoy yet so tragic as well. I want to apologize and offer it solace but my palate so craves I will not resist. The death knell of the street hot dog I fear is come to pass.
But alas, I have resigned it to its fate. What was once so cherished must be cast aside. I fear not the soul of my street hot dog for I know its time has passed. Someday my street hot dog will be born again, and in that cart or old lunch truck it will have another go. So I bid thee farewell street dog as I prepare the final bite, you have served me well my friend, now please go towards the light.