They will find my bones at the bottom of a pit eight miles south of El Paso
A jaw with three teeth and surgical screws. I am a relic time cannot lose.
The bones of my hand, once hidden by sand, now stored where all history lingers.
Professors, well-read, measure my head, and wonder if tools touched my fingers.
The message boards flash with dreams of my past, debating how I was dismembered
Yet none of them guess the extent of this mess –
I was an idiot. But I am remembered.
Missing Link
