Goin to the Food Bank

The hot dogs sat in their plastic casing.  They were always the same kind.  Long pale fingers of chicken and pork.  Food for the underpaid.  Unheeded they sat in the back of the freezer until the “end of the month”.  At last the little package of plastic with the pink fingers is taken out.  They defrost quickly and cook even quicker.  They are cooked and eaten in silence.  The aroma is the smell of overt poverty but you eat them anyway.  The beans are always last, ‘cuz they give you gassssss.