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.