James Wackett

James Wackett

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-retiredmilkman, the older and younger postmen,the cop who still walks the proverbialbeat. Then the dogs pad softly in–the ones who were never caught–those

During the day they shoutthrough a secret language:they bleat and squeal through fourwheels, announcing intentions,ripping metal from metalwhen impatient or careless.Even when still, they still talkinto their own hands and ears,whispering secrets to themselves–what they see, what they hear. But when the sun turns pinkand hangs below their houses,then they go, hand-in-hand, downto the waters.