Found it in the back of the closet

Found it in the back of the closet,

a box of old receipts,

and this flattened tennis ball,

hard as a stale biscuit.

Still smells faintly of dog,

and dust, the way old memories

do, when you shake them out

from under the bed.

His dog.

His teeth marks, deep little

crescents, like a bad moon phase.

He’d throw it, that dog,

and run, always bringing it back,

a gift of slobber and devotion.

Now, just this artifact,

a hard lump in my hand.

No dog, no owner,

just the ghost of a game

and the permanent indentations

of a forgotten bite.

Still here.