IN THE HEYDAYS OF HIS EYES
(taut jeans dancing)

An Anthology of Poetry about Being Young and Growing Up
 
 
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UNCLE DOG: THE POET AT 9

Robert Sward

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.

 
 
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