Digging a dry well deeper’s not a crime.
Hey, it’s your funeral. Everything that can be said
About the dead’s been said at least a million times.
Your chances of striking water are quite low.
If time itself is dying it’s its time.
But then again, who knows, there may be moisture yet
Below the empty coffin bed to fill a garden hose.
Stranger things have happened, muddy clothes
Washed in blood river come out clean. I’ve seen
A dead man on a concrete sleeve
After the paramedic crew’s thrown up their arms
Pull desperate balls of air into his lungs and breathe.
It’s true. If you ask yourself, and think quite deeply on it,
It may not be too late to write a sonnet.
