Welcome to My Poetry Site

37,819 poems read

                                 “Hot Dog on a Stick”
The two boys sat across from,
Hot Dog on a Stick.
They both ordered one or both,
Of the only 2-items,
That they sold their,
Fresh squeezed lemonade,
Or a hotdog,
Dipped in batter,
Deep fried,
On a stick.
They both loved the mall,
But their favorite place to go,
Was Hot Dog on a Stick.
It had the Hottest girls by far,
Of any place in the whole mall.
The girls at the giant cookie place,
Came in 2nd,
But it was a distant 2nd.
The two boys had been coming,
To the mall since they were 13 years old.
One hour and 15-minutes each way,
On their bikes,
If they peddled real hard.
Once they got to the mall,
They would take one quick lap,
Around the mall,
Then straight to Hot Dog on a Stick,
And they have been coming back,
Ever since.
Now they were 16,
And in high school,
Driving a beat up VW bug.
They cut the drive time,
Down to just 7-minutes each way.
They could still spend over an hour,
Sitting on a 2-foot Wall,
Surrounding a bunch of trees,
On the other side of the walkway,
Across from Hot Dog on a Stick.
Now the boys liked,
The sweet lemonade,
The hotdogs were,
Like no other in town,
But it was the girls,
The girls were the reason,
For a 2 ½ hour round trip,
Bike ride.
The girls were always,
Between 16 & 20 years old,
And like a sports team,
Every year new rookies would join,
And well-loved veterans,
Would disappear from the roster.
The boys knew all the girls names,
And would fire off,
Each girl’s stats,
Like that of a pro ball player.
Blond hair,
Blue eyes,
Southern accent,
And a 38-inch bust.
With that last stat,
Seeming to get quoted,
More often than any of the others.
They would talk about the veterans,
From years past,
Rattle off her stats,
And the little interactions,
They had with her.
Or maybe that new hire,
Dark tanned Vikki,
So bubbly and perky,
And talks like a valley girl,
She’d be perfect,
If only she had better numbers,
In that one all-important stat category.
The official uniform,
Was another popular topic of conversation.
It was red shorts,
A striped halter top,
And for some strange reason,
A big oversized hat.
The boys spent countless hours,
Sitting on that 2-foot wall,
Discussing where the girls,
Got their red shorts.
They couldn’t just be some standard,
Bulk Company issued,
Medium sized red shorts.
Each girl seemed to fit into them,
So perfectly,
As if they were hand sewn,
On to each and every girl.
Now the halter tops,
We’re not tight at all,
In fact they were quite loose fitting,
And depending on,
Each girl’s induvial bending style,
The tops tended to hang down,
Quite a bit at times.
So that some of that,
Soft and pretty lace,
Of what the boys thought to be,
Or thought they knew to be,
Was clearly visible.
The boys fought and augured,
Over what exactly it was,
Each boy swore they saw.
Those stolen images,
Stayed with them,
Long past the ride home.
The boys hasn’t said anything,
For the last 20-minutes or so.
Neither one had any comment to make,
Or stats to compare.
So the boys slide off the wall,
And started to pick up their trash,
Then they both walked towards,
The Hot Dog on a Stick.
One wiping his mouth,
With a napkin.
The other one trying to get,
One last swallow,
Out of his drink.
As they put their trash,
In a small trash can,
Next to the Hot Dog on a Stick counter.
As they started to walk away,
They both glanced over,
One last time,
For a look at the girls,
Before turning away.
Leaving behind them,
Both the girls of,
Hot Dog on a Stick,
And one of their favorite,
Boyhood fantasy’s…
  Tom Allen…02-17-2017…