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Feeling Sorry for Myself While Standing Before the Stegosaurus at the Natural History Museum in London
by Michael Derrick Hudson
Oh yes my friend, I've been there: the insects battering at
the armored lids of your yellowish eyes
the moment you pecked your way out of that rotten shell
and dug out from your sandpit nest.....
And I've experienced the thud thud thud of your days,
the indigestible monotony
of everything's spiny orangy-green husk. How the sun
gets daily whiter and hotter and just
a little bit closer. The week spent gobbling down your
own weight's worth of whatever. One stumpy
footprint after another, tracking the trackless, squelching
across last night's marsh into a volcano-spattered today
hip-deep in ash and yawning
a muzzleful of sulfur. Swishing through stiff fronds,
we drag an unbearable load of tombstones on our back
and a fat lugubrious tail, shit-smutched and
spiked. The flattening of the razor grass. The forgotten
clutch of eggs. Our shrill yaps
and groans. That tiny gray walnut
for a brain and the fat black tongue tough as a bootsole.....
They've explained us away a dozen times: some passing
meteorite or another, the rat-like mammals
eating our pitiful young, all kinds
of new weather. Issueless, but far too stupid to be forlorn,
we trundle along the pink quartz shore
to sip at the lukewarm edge of yet another evaporating sea.
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