by Garrett Hongo
On the corner of the block
an old man sells hot dogs
from his pushcart.
All afternoon businessmen
in pinstriped suits
grab a quick bite
before bolting back
to the stock exchange and their
clattering teletypes.
The old man has weathered
more storms than Ulysses,
outlived his children,
his wives. His eyes
are rheumy, his hands gnarled
but his jokes are still sharp
as razors.
One day, a young woman
steps from a limousine
and approaches the cart
wearing a fur coat
that would choke a small animal
and sunglasses to match
the sheen on her poodle's coat.
She orders a hot dog
with the works
and then reaches
into her purse for money.
As she does so,
the leash on her dog slips
from her fingers, and the dog
bolts into the street.
A horn blares, brakes squeal,
tires screech, and then
a sickening crunch.
The young woman,
still clutching her purse,
screams and collapses
on the sidewalk.
The old man rushes to her side
but it's too late.
She's dead.
The young woman's family
sues the old man
and wins a huge settlement.
The old man's life is ruined.
He loses his home, his business,
and his health.
He dies a few years later
alone and forgotten
in a nursing home.
The accident site
becomes a legend.
People say they can see
the young woman's ghost
wandering the street
at night,
dressed in her fur coat,
screaming for her lost dog.
In this poem, an ordinary street scene is suddenly transformed by a tragic event. A young woman is killed when her dog is hit by a car, and the old man who sells hot dogs from his pushcart is ruined by the lawsuit that follows. The accident site becomes a legend, and people say they can see the young woman's ghost wandering the street at night.