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.