When You Go Out to Walk the Dog

You call me at 10:14 p.m. I think:

He has been kidnapped or shot or maybe

it is aliens or wild dogs. Someone is dead

Or

he lost his shoe in a sinkhole. The dog

is rabid, or maybe the dog is the dead

one.

Come outside, you laugh. You are

standing on the lawn holding

a bag of shit and the dog leash. You say

look, look at the moon. And I do.