Taylor Graham Hospital, Day Three Photo (detail) by Taylor Graham In the parking garage, in our little Honda, the old dog sleeps with his head under the drape of your old wool jacket— how he's spent each visiting hour since the paramedics siren'd you away. You left your jacket hanging from the driver's headrest, upright still. Red wool, I can't say how many decades old; worn at collar and cuffs, the weave pilled from hard work in the cold; cruising timber or hiking above the cow camp; walking under stars. Doghair clings to the fabric where he's leaned against you. How does a dog count days in the dark of a parking garage? He doesn't stir but in dream, to sniff the air. Come, he calls from somewhere under the beloved wool scent of your arm- pit. Come, he calls wordless, come home.

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