Dinosaurs by Lola Simon

Walking home past half-lit street lamps

flickering in hopes of beating out the sun,

I picture, for once, what lies below the soles of my shoes

past the dried up gum plastered on the concrete of Brooklyn streets

and the dirt, that lies even deeper

to find the bones of pterodactyls trapped in limestone

perpetually frozen with wings outstretched

waiting to fly past the candy bar wrappers

and tiny plastic G.I. Joes

that exist beneath the layers of sidewalk and asphalt.


I wonder when the last time was someone thought to say hello

or if they preferred that no one acknowledge them at all

because maybe their own company is enough for eternity

which would be nice, to find someone to make you feel that way.

I hope that is the case.


Further from that,

I picture what lies beneath my own skin and blood,

if pterodactyls exist in my stomach too

in similar states of interminability and bone

waiting to climb up my throat.