|my son, in night vision goggles|
They are all extinct.
The animals I grew up with, gone, except in memory, mostly. Every once in a while you may catch a glimpse out the corner of your eye. Most times dismissed as something else.
I once slept in the belly of a dragon for a week. It's darkness comforting me as I nested in the blankets and pillows that usually adorned my bed. I brought along my mother's button jar. The one that sat upon the piano where my sister learned to play, another in the succession of generations of players to play it.
Separating the buttons into piles, I created solar systems. Planets of all sizes and colors. Some solid in color, some swirled, most round and all had one thing in common. Holes. Holes for things to slip through, like the thread that once held them in place.
The dragon left on trash day, loaded into the maw of the garbage truck. I heard it squeal as the great compacting arm pressed it into an abundance of dirty plastic bags bulging with others refuse, then a loud bang as if it were trying to escape.
I dream it did.
On it's side was tattooed an address to somewhere in Ohio. A warehouse for appliances. One day I will travel there, where I imagine him sitting at a table in the back room. Perhaps gathered with others, waiting for me to arrive.
written for no one in particular other than myself. smiles. Hope you had a lovely weekend and happy Monday.