Chasing, Catching, But Not Giving

It will happen -- the dog will die.
But today he's chasing a ball
like any dumb dog.

He's old,
still with puppy-dog eyes though,
a serious face, a white stripe

from his nose, between his goofy
eyes, as he takes limped strides toward
the ball,
getting older.

And then it's a struggle, he returns
with the ball, but doesn't want
to give it up, taking a few steps
back, a flaw, perhaps, not

unlike humans, chasing, catching, but not giving,
lovable, though.
"He's got a good bark," Toby says.
The dog barks, and barks

and barks -- he wants us to chase him.
"Damn dog," I say, a beer
in my hand, a cigarette
in the other, taking steps
toward the dog. "You damn dog."

A full-moon night, the moon
looks fuller in California than Carolina,
probably because of the palm fronds,
swaying like jazz ladies in the Santa Ana
winds, this blind
old dog --

"We were going
to go to Lake Alice tonight, weren't
we?" I say,
picking up the ball.

"Yeah," Toby says. I throw
the ball, the dog chases, and then returns.
"Oh, well," I say. "This is fine."