On the night I had hot dogs and baked beans for dinner

By Susan Kolon

Previously published in Gnashing Teeth Publishing’s September 2024 issue

It was your birthday, little sister. 
You got a new bike, sheened 

in lustful boysenberry, tassels 
hanging from sky-high handlebars

and I was jealous. You let me 
boss you when we played, I had to

beat you, always. One night 
I staged a race, hurried you 

through supper, hot dogs 
and baked beans—I ate two,

had to outdo you. Riding 
in the breeze, your blonde 

locks waving, my pixie stuck
to my forehead in the humidity. 

You were ahead and I turned
my front wheel into your rear. 

You fell, of course, 
like I wanted you to. 

The baby blue Volkswagen couldn’t
stop, burning rubber, skid marks 

on the pavement. A leg of plaster
and five stitches on your tender 

face. For that hot July summer, 
your pedaling days were done. 

And you knew it was me 
but you never told.

Susan Kolon is a Chicago-based health educator and poet. For two decades, she wandered the marketing halls of corporate America, dispelling stories about children, catalogs and candy. She is currently at work on her first book of poems.