Now

By Frannie Lindsay

I read to my dog from a takeout menu
so he can sleep. When he tires
of that, I talk to him
about nothing, and when I run out
of things to say, I make up words
to a song with whatever
array of notes and breath streams in

the way the clean wind did
as we rode once, and
I rolled down the window a hair
and he sat up without effort, glossy nose
in the speeding weather, eyes half closed
in the light that whizzed through his fur
like the hands of a friend
who had missed him.

This article available online at:

http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2005/03/now/303739/