I once dreamed my father
handed me the red ball
that his father had handed him
going back some ways
to the reservation, Oklahoma Territory,
and before that, who knows, 
it got murky,

but the ball — size of a soccer ball, 
bright red, the red of ax heads and wax lips—
contained a Pandora’s box
of maladjustments and addictions.

It was an easy enough dream
to interpret, and I set it aside for years,
until this evening,
when my daughter brought home a red ball —
size of a beach ball —
from Target.

She thinks it’s funny
I stand in the street, 
kicking the ball high up in the air,
aiming for the clouds or
at least the far end of town, 
and though I kick, and I kick,
she goes full bore 
after that red ball 
as if it were already a prized possession, 
more valuable than any other toy, 
the pursuit more intoxicating 
than the threat of oncoming traffic.