I read this poem by James Richardson in a recent New Yorker and, a few days later, had to stop everything to root through bags and various recycling bins in my home to find it again. I tore it out and now it's on my 'fridge. I couldn't find any way/place to link to the poem in a way that anyone can read it - the link above goes to the New Yorker's website where you need a subscription to read the whole thing, but it's from the October 14 New Yorker which has a dog on the cover so . . . maybe keep an eye out. Some doctor's office or friend's bathroom in your not-too-distant future is bound to have it.