By Erik Kay
"Charlie and I take Mazie out after Christmas shopping.
For decorations, not gifts. We walk mine and Mazie’s route:
down the creaky outside stairs and along the alley
on gravelly, trashy concrete--much of which Mazie
wants to eat--and to Irwin park. Mazie walks obediently
with both Mom and I there. We walk down the long-short
steps by the playground, and to the baseball field.
We wander, us three, into the outfield.
The moon hangs halfway in the night sky,
and Charlie’s ponytail bounces, her strawberry
roots reflecting back the light that traveled
a quarter of a million miles in less than two seconds
just to do that. We play fetch, try to teach Mazie
how to roll over, and play keep away.
Mazie-Moo-Cow seems a small white blur
zipping about in the translucent light.
One moment strikes me--Charlie,
glancing at me to grab the throw-rope,
smiling her soft smile with dimples
in a half-jog. The cage behind home plate
gleams cream-black with moonlight,
And the grass is stiff beneath our feet."
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