☀ Editor's Choice: "The Book of the Dead Man (#46)" Marvin Bell selected by Eric Pankey

The dead man, that man, consorted with canines in the turmoil of a
derangement sensed by few others.
The mongrel was apt, the mutt, the half-breed is best, the hybrid, the
mixure—being those of an underclass to which the dead man
belongs.
The dead man's dog is immediate, primary, without tedious human
calculation.
The dead man's dog follows his nose, his tongue lags but accompanies, his
owner's voice mixes with the sighing of the browning leaves.
The dead mans dog is housebroken, barnbroken, fieldbroken, lawnbroken
but is free to go.
The dead man's dog keeps a tight leash on his master, dragging him to
every clandestine murmur, every rumor of affection.
The dead man's dog has the wherewithal to violate those senseless codes
meant to make a man or woman stay.
To the contrary, the dead man's dog shakes hands, he fetches, he heels,
also he behaves and misbehaves in human proportions.
The dead man's dog plays dead.

When there is no more approbation, no license, no all-time immunity, no
obedience or disregard, no loyalty that is not also the pick of the litter,
no luck but dumb luck then okay it's not a show, and spunk is what
it takes.
It takes the dead man an eternity to romp, meanwhile he learns a mutt's
moxie.
Oh pretty dogs that reap the rage of benefactors in good times.
Oh dogs shorn of the outdoors, oh clipped, oh shaggy shaggy shaggy.
The dead man's dog does not sit up and beg.
The dead man's dog is the hybrid of now and later, bred to be good with
children, eager, vigilant.
Hound and buddy, enthusiast of dishes and scraps, perch for fleas, station
of sanity, trained to disobey in the nick of time—the dead man's dog
runs beyond reason.
His is the virtue of the undersides of logs.
He readies his bones for the passage to the underworld.
He rolls before the fireplace, the whole house his sarcophagus, his face lit
like that of an Egyptian jackal.
The dead man's dog's teeth are nine-tenths of the law.
His claws are the quills whose marks will be the stuff of history.
His tail is a brush for which the wide day is his canvas.
Eagerly, the dead man lies down with dogs, observer of puppy love and
dog song.
The dead man's dog is a little bit of all right, a wagging yes, a cause of
whistling and waving, cupped hands and come-when-called.
He bestirs the dead man's fortitude.