Fortunes

The widow of a handsome Greek
stands in the kitchen
of her brick home.
A cigarette burns between
slim fingers,
smoke dancing up to the ceiling.
The dogs she loves in place of children
linger at her feet,
quiet and content.
Free hand on her hip,
she leans against a counter,
listening to her baseball team
give up a run.
She saw them win a World Series, once,
a long time ago,
and she sat in the stands
draped in golden regalia,
hair too coifed to
entertain a cap,
and she screamed and cheered
despite herself, until
her throat went raw.
Her fortunes rise and fall,
ebb like Ohio River tides.
Right now,
as the sun dips below an Appalachian foothill,
she knows they are going,
going,
gone.