Bleached bones in the sun, bleached bones in the sand;
the final resting place for a foolish man.
Scattered about the desert the same as they fell.
If these bones could talk what stories would they tell?
With mining tools and a trusty mule,
he set out to stake his claim.
Two bags of gold and two weeks later;
his fortune made, now for his fame.
He ran out of water along the way;
his mule died the very next day,
under the sun’s fiery flame...
He refused to leave the bags of gold;
the dangers of money had long been foretold;
his foolhardy greed was to blame.
With parched throat and blistered skin
he searched for water til his untimely end.
His dehydrated body staggered over the dunes.
The mirages of water pools were plentiful at high noon.
The unbearable heat increased the thirsty prospector’s demand.
He died only a short distance from salvation’s liquid “hand”.
How ironic his fate, common sense never came;
his body weighted down in its final resting place...
One hundred yards from water.
I know all these things on good faith, for you see;
Those bleached bones in the desert belonged to me!


Poem copyrighted by Bo Bandy.

© Getty & Fey.
All Rights reserved.