It sat still along the wooden planks, and stared down into the murky lake water, brown from the sediment of a thousand years, from the rust of sunken boats and drowned cars and the freon of a hundred dead refrigerators.
And as the boats sped across the lake, a little piece of my hot dogs died inside. Somehow, the whole package of eight, all-beef, knew that their only way onto one of those boats was in my stomach.
America seemed like a joke to them, and my charcoal began to warm into a great beast of fire, and large sparklers burned over my grass into tiny iridescent nubs.
Tags: Hot Dogs July Fireworks