Courtesy Wikipedia. Public domain.

My soles burn back @ the sizzling sand,

& volleys are sent forth yet ’gain.

There’s no safe space to stand;

I see them coming from every bend.

“Hey, buddy, ¿you all right?

You look wasted.”


I swing my trusty bone to keep them @ bay;

But they don’t budge, only become mo’ fevered,

They press me back restrained.

Time to lock me back into my

sarcophagus, which is where they

want me. Don’t want me in their sight—

the dirt clumps on their angel white food cake.

“He’s gone.”

“Well, a’least we have a whole bunch mo’ bones.”

They passed his femur back & forth till sunset.


Bone, Iraq, tennis