In 2093…in knee deep burning sand
A water digging nomad…grabbed with blistered hand
Rectangular in shape…it fit within his fist
He’d of traded it right then…for just a breath of mist
As the blazing sun receded…our parched, our dying man
Frantically pushed buttons…hoping for a fan
Instead the tiny device…lit up an ebbing face
If the damn thing could pour water…would be his saving grace
A little slab of miracles…the thing could even think
Sing, play games, take pictures, road maps…yet not a thing to drink
Phone, calculator, computer, appendage… to some an only friend
The withered hand that held it…had one last message to send
I-Phone, I-Tunes, I-Think, Dear …
The glow perished on the dead man’s face
Etched shadows of epitaph…I-God
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