Ruby ’81
July 4th 1981,
Candles of a Roman ilk,
Unloaded from a Chevy truck
Into the home where folks had built,
Patio was charcoals
And extended fam in folding chairs,
Safely arced around the yard
To focus on the smoking flares.
Couple cousins, uncles, aunts
Mostly grown-ups, couple brats
Baby Ruby’s only two,
She’s too close to the jumping jacks.
Mommy scoops her to the house,
Buckles up the booster seat,
Rolls her to the storm door,
Let her long for all the lunacy.
Telephone distracting Mom,
Ruby wriggles at her strap,
Fingers push the plexiglass,
She’s off into the sour patch.
Past the pyrotechnics,
Undetected and invisible,
Woke the sleeping beagle,
Skipping toward the kidney swimming pool.
Off into the yawning blue,
The splash would mum the rocket ships,
Ruby’s lungs were filling
By the time her kin were cognisant.
Many sprung and sprinted down,
All arrived belated but,
The beast she had earlier stirred
Had been alert since waking up.
The canine let his gainer fly,
Water top commotion grow,
Howling guests assume
The cloven hooves had come to do-si-do.
Frenzied and congested deck,
Part to let the elders see,
Soggy beagle gently dragging
Ruby in his yellow teeth.
Laid the tiny body,
In the sun before her father’s feet,
When she choked the liquid through her bluish lips,
He dropped his knee.
Helped the air to reconvene,
Toweled a shaking Ruby off,
Emt confirmed the save,
Everybody said “Good Dog”.