Sandra Marchetti

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.