Ice Ball

Ice Ball

A couple of kids sniggering behind a corner mailbox in wait
got me good they did. One, off the top of my cool tossle cap

and the second, a square plunk to the shoulder that stung.
Then there they ran up Bell Avenue then left through Wilson’s yard

vanished I could hear the laughing delight of a boy prank gone right.
Had I been paying attention I might have caught the blindside coming

readied myself—the snow was packing perfect—and launched back.
But I was not. I was more dragging than stepping my feet heavy through

the toe-deep snow. I was staring at the sun burn behind St. James steeple.
I was letting my face fall beard wet and saw that it was not yet cold

enough for my next breath to be steaming and what I could hear
was not the bus bumper that slid along the side of the double-parked

Amazon truck nor did I believe there was anything more to do
than head nod the guy who caught my gaze waiting for the crosswalk

to open and in all this air there was only the breathless silence of no more
bark to door or nose to hand or leash to pull or treat to beg or park to go

and kindly the students noising for war to end and peace today let me slide
and I heard the slow weight of our good boy’s tongue fall pink on our palms

and the Vet’s warm eye wave, he’s gone, and pain has no more bone to chew
and the ice ball sweet we gave him on the hot September day was his last.