by Sandra Marchetti
“The good Lord wants the Cubs to win.”
~Harry Caray
I dreamt you rewound
the last play that evening
our fortunes changed
and took it away.
In the nightmare you
lead the trophy back
from our owner’s hands
to the commissioner’s grasp.
Then Bryant slipped
and missed the ball,
his smile twisted
to torture. Or maybe
he threw but the seams
popped loose from Rizzo’s
mitt—two on, two out.
Either way, you shifted
it from our grasp
and settled its heft
back onto your lap.
*Previously published in Louisiana Literature.
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