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 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 backseats
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 everysingle can.
I thought. I did not want to be Mr.
Everybody calls them that first.
A dog is said, Dog! Or by name.
I would rather be called Rover
Than Mr. 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.