Against the White Sox in
Their First World Series
Kali barks Mine! at
the lazy, lolling spilling cardinal maple leaf.
Jack
smiled; hands rested on his knees.
Kali moves to and fro—Ensberg at third under an infield fly.
It’s blustery!
Jack already made a lot of plays.
Kali barks and yells it’s
a glorious Indian Summer day!
His Astros T-shirt stuck to his
shoulders.
Kali backs over the driveway curb almost stumbles into the
dugout. She hopes
and doesn’t hope the shortstop calls her off.
Jack giggled.
The oak and the hickory give their leaves to the wind. Kali spins beneath. Take
them! Master they’re falling!
Jack’s
right sock spotted but not like Schilling’s.
Kali holds her focus on the lowest. Then leaps, her haunches twist and bend, and
she snaps as wind shears the ground; the leaf falls harmlessly foul.
Kali doesn’t shake her head, slump her shoulders, no tail
between her legs. Already, They’re falling! Master!
For all the marbles! Without
a word of remorse.
Those
powers ascribed to Lassie, Rin Tin Tin, Old
Yeller—to Jack’s midnight blue Lab—are they false? Craven?
Old wives’ tales?
Or does she go crazy too?
Her eyes flaming, her hair matted with blood. Small fangs protruding
from purple lips; tongue lolling.