Classic Poem

And went to one of the Glory Temples for which
our city is famous & found
a sick congregation – spitting blood

& convulsing obscenely, only the shepherd
of this flock not afflicted, & outside, lined up,
waiting – dog carts for the dead, but where

were the dogs? Out chasing
some silly fox, I assumed, & was correct
as the huntress, when I finally found her,

was sitting on a log surrounded by hounds, tails
wagging, the corpse of some poor fox
in her lap. “Hi,” she said, “I’m

Dot Com & of course
you’ve come for the dogs.” Obediently
they followed me back to the church

& were duly harnessed & off we set
for the burial ground to which, luckily, for it
was getting dark, the shepherd knew the way.