Uncle Dog: The Poet at 9.
I did not want to be old Mr. Garbage Man, but Uncle Dog, who
rode sitting beside him.
Uncle Dog had always looked to me
to be truck strong, wise-eyed, a cur-like like Ford of a dog.
I did not want to be Mr. Garbage Man because all he
had was cans to do.
Uncle Dog sat there, me beside him,
emptying nothing, barely even looking from garbage side
to side.
Like rich people in the back seats of chauffeur cars,
only shaggy in an unwagging, tall, scrawny way.
Uncle Dog belonged any just where he sat,
but old Mr. Garbage Man had to stop at every single can.
I thought I did not want to be Mister.
Everybody calls them that first.
A dog is said dog or by name.
I would rather be called Rover than Mister,
and sit like a tough, smart mongrel beside a garbage man.
Uncle Dog always went to places unconcerned, without no hurry,
independent, like some leashless toot. Honorable
among scavenger can-picking dogs,
and with a bitch at every other can, and meat,
his for the barking.
Oh, I wanted to be Uncle Dog.
Sharp, high, fox-eared, cur-Ford,
truck-faced, with his pick of the bones.
A doing, truckman's dog and not a simple child dog
nor friend to man, but an uncle traveling and to himself,
and a bitch at every second can.