The Dinosaur

By Mark Belair

There will come a time

when a miniature dinosaur will hold

no joy for this little boy, the turning of it in his hands

 

no longer turning his mind

to its own possibilities as it does now—

his eyebrows darting as he talks to himself—

 

for that job will have been done

by the dinosaur and a zillion toys more

and when the boy becomes a man there will come a time

 

when he idly hands

his own boy a miniature dinosaur

and hears something distant stomping near

 

then arriving with a gut-thrilling roar: the thought

that of every possibility he’s had a mind

to explore none has brought him,

 

as has this little boy, such

seemingly impossible

joy.

 

___

Mark Belair is a drummer and percussionist based in New York City. His poems have appeared in numerous journals, including Atlanta Review, Fulcrum, Harvard Review, Michigan Quarterly Review, Poet Lore, Slipstream, The South Carolina Review, The Texas Review, Sanskrit, and The Sun. He has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and his chapbook collection, Walk With Me, has recently been published by Parallel Press of the University of Wisconsin at Madison. For further information, visit www.markbelair.com.


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