The tip of my plastic Triceratops’s tail tastes
Best when I sit in the sandbox.
Jigsaw shadows of rustling leaves cast
Judgement day clouds over the late cretaceous.
As hungry pterodactyls swoop overhead,
Clutched in my pudgy predominant palm,
I cut my dinosaurs’ desert pilgrimage short
With monsoon rains from the garden hose.
As an insatiable deinosuchus circles around
And around the herd while they stand trapped on a sandbank,
My meddling, weeding mom over by the base of the shed
Hearkens over the neighbor kid leering at the edge of our yard.
With fervor the kid races over to me, snot
From his nose lagging two feet behind him.
He jumps into the sandbox, bowl-cut hair flinging back,
Leaving a foot-shaped sinkhole in my dimetrodon swamp.
He waggles his shorts in my face for a bit,
Then sits down in the center of my raptor oasis.
He ungraciously grabs a green gallimimus
And tosses it into the kiddie pool Tethys Sea.
He laughs, splashing silt, flashing a smile
With more jagged holes than a theropod skull.
From a dry patch of Pangea I scoop a blue plastic shovelful of sand
And try to help fill in the holes for him.
As he runs off without even thanking me,
I help my herd recover from the sudden sandstorm.
Adrian Thomson is a student attending college in northern Utah. This is his first publication in a professional literary journal.