Halvard Johnson
	Sonnet: My Dog Sunyata Having a bite--falafel or maybe a slice of pizza (extra cheese, no meat)--I watched the dog outside, leashed to a utility pole, sitting quietly, waiting for its master or mistress, whatever, reminding me of my dog Sunyata, who never failed to amuse me whenever I took notice of him. "Here, Sunyata," I would command, and he would unfailingly obey, come to wherever I was and sit there, looking up at me with his brown eyes. My dog Sunyata hated the president as much as I did, rolled his eyes and growled whenever he came on TV. My wife had taken to leaving us alone at such times, knowing that to do otherwise would invite retribution. Streetcars still came and went in those days, taking their power from overhead powerlines, as though power were something just there to be taken. Train Down at the station I am struck by a thought that carries me along with it past downtown exclamations along the order of “Look at me!” and “Here am I!” and into seedy boroughs of “No way!” streets and “Who you lookin' at?” alleys. Then the green of “I've got mine, Jack” suburbs flashes by on the right, with river sucked seaward on the left, until the little towns—so quaint, so coy— slide past. First, “Why me, O Lord?” then “What have I done to deserve this?” in quick succession; then, farther north, in dairy country, a bite-sized town called “Huh?” For an hour I brood between “Huh?” and “Hmmm,” where there's a longish stop for fuel and water, and I climb off and walk around for a while. Back on board, I start taking notes, jotting down this’s and that’s about these’s and those’s. I hear a conductor coming through the car—voice powerful and deep— announcing, “Next stop, Eureka!” I snap to wakefulness, fully aware now that I’ve had a doze—on the wrong train, on the wrong coast, for any sort of ultimate destination— so at the next station, the one for Muddle and Quandary, I grab my bags, get off, and am home.