Dying Thirsty
By Christopher M. Towsley
From the Whiteout Press poetry section.
Poem – Dying Thirsty by C.M. Towsley. Image courtesy of Bill Frymire.
Seems like they’re always telling You,
never forget the dead,
I mean right from those slicked back posters,
above Your bed,
You would think,
they would want You to,
instead.
The majority of the dead,
We seldom recollect,
yet I am sure,
You recall quite clearly,
when it’s You that’s,
cashing the cheque.
Because there are so many of them now,
You couldn’t remember half,
and I wonder if somehow,
they’re all kept track of,
in a cache.
You see in death,
there is a clandestine
liberty.
Why some deaths are remembered,
forever,
is a mystery.
While others die,
and their memories,
are swept away,
their bones unearthed,
by a machine,
on some nondescript working day.
And all these guys,
were busy,
grabbing a bone,
for a souvenir,
when most of the dead would tell You,
all they wanted was a cold beer.
And I thought to Myself,
being parched at death,
would
and I figured,
that dying,
might not be so bad,
as long as it didn’t
include thirst.
And it made Me think of all the Young kids,
dying in a war,
their canteens dry for hours,
they’d been promised more.
Nothing came,
but a swarming enemy,
and their final cry,
was from a mouth bone dry,
and thirsty.
