Dessication Poem by Mary Champion
Dessication
The old Ford was so cramped,
and his legs were so long,
that his knees were jammed on the dashboard.
A wet handkerchief covered his nose,
but he knew he was mad
to drive through a dust storm
as he fled the emptying dustbowl.
It was six months before they found him -
a shrivelled shell of a man
half buried in the dust -
scarcely visible -
like a faded photograph.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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6/20/2026 5:21:36 AM # 1.0.0
