There is a man

Who lives in the desert
In a house made of driftwood,
And civilization miles away
He lives an implausible life.

The man is named Charlie
He is old, wrinkled, spotted
And dry from his 95 years,
He grows his own food
Lettuce, crisp and wet.

In blistering heat that simmers skin
In the quartz land that fills one's lung with earth
In the windswept heath of sand,
A man lives
In complete self isolation.

Late night slumber
Crickets playing Mozart
A man of crust and sandpaper,
Finally laid down his hammer
And went to a deep sleep.

There was a man
Who lived in the desert
For his many years,
He lived alone, strangely
In a house made of driftwood.