Comeback

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COMEBACK


Regarding the species of the dead, 

little can be said with certainty, 


though such ambiguity has not deterred

the dog from dropping it, piece 


by piece, in dry clicks on the porch. 

Today a vertebrae, the night before 


what might pass for a femur, tomorrow,

maybe, a tibia or a jaw, licked white 


by wind and frost's coarse tongue. Hard 

to explain to the neighbor, this 


collection littering the yard, 

and harder still to explain what he plans 


to do with such remains, unless

like a bur in his coat there remains


a late-inning trick, and in a swift, dyslexic 

inversion the black dog becomes a god


bright as day, in no uncertain terms 

commanding the bones to get it together


and heel, his bark stitching them 

in meat and a name. I can't claim to know


much of this dog and the gnawed over 

baseball he noses to my feet,


but all the same, of this my sore shoulder

is sure: he loves to play the long game. 

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