His casket is a large silver steel box,
simple and sleek, secure as a submarine,
strong enough to not be dented if dropped.
It sits atop a huge wooden platform
as the mourners file in--the long-retired
milkman, the older and younger postmen,
the cop who still walks the proverbial
beat. Then the dogs pad softly in--the ones
who were never caught--those sleek, dirty runners,
who have tunneled and tramped for the knowledge
it bought, who are defined, by opposition,
by the man within the box. They sit solemnly
in the back, chins up, paws crossed, listening
as the milkman delivers his eulogy,
praising the deceased's diligence, his resolve
to never compromise his job. The dogs
nod in agreement--these are qualities
they admire and respect, having found
and buried so many bones, that others,
they hope, will later dig up. They remember
the times they were almost caught, his tight net--
its threads so thin but secure as a house--
just glancing off of their ears as they sensed
its descent--barely avoiding, once again,
the catcher's grey hands. As the service ends
the milk-post-and-policemen carry out
the coffin, the dogs yowling in unison--
a howl for, and against, the dog catcher's rest.
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