Berkeley. I'm taking athletic tests--a scholarship for girls.
Weird--before lunch I was a boy! Oh well, I often shift...

In dreams! But this is real! And yet I feel... a script.
Who's writing my tranny tale? We dreams must endure
Whatever our unseen author (fe or male) unfurls.

I run, jump, climb and swim myself limp. Will Title Nine
Deem me worth a grant? I think I proved I'm fit.
Reward myself--meet a friend for a film. We're in line
Outside Shattuck Theater when I witness... it.

He did pretty well for a dog. For a girl. Maybe he'll win a grant
Too. He's talking to friends in line. Well, mumbling, because
He's holding a paper lunchbag in his teeth. Since no hands.

Jostled by a tall, he drops the bag. A beefbone tumbles out.
Bereft of his talisman, the dog rears into a young black man.

Were-dog! My friend gasps in shock. Not at metamorphosis
(Berkeley's now a Sanctuary for the Were) but metaphor.
He blurts "Our scriptwriter's saying black men are dogs! Our
Author's raaaaacissst!" With that Berkeley hiss.

The weredog--ex-dog--rolls his eyes. Berkeley! Oh, he
Doesn't need to say a thing aloud. Not to were-girl me.