DINOSAURS

I have dinosaurs in my pockets
Pachecephalosaurus and Parasauralophus building nests of cotton and
fleece.
Carnivores and herbivores peacefully coexist, eating dried leaves
and bits of broken crackers—no roars or swear words to be heard.

"Daddy, put this in your pocket,"
demands my attention.
A Gigantosaurus fresh from the sandbox tar pit makes room as best as
he can, tail clearing a path, ridges scraping my palm, tongue like
sandpaper.

"Daddy, I want to be a head-butter,"
goes ignored until my hip feels
the laws of physics in effect.
How can you ignore a two-ton Triceratops?
"Daddy, can I be a dinosaur?"
follows effortlessly.

"You can be anything you want,"
is my standard response.

"Daddy, I want to be just like you,"
melts the ice flows,
uncovers fossils long buried,
and makes the dinosaur-tube replicas, Made in China, roar.