TYRANNOSAURUS REX
by Dorothy Johnson-Laird
My name is Tyrannosaurus Rex.
In the 19th century, they went in search of me.
Digging up my bones, they would not let me be.
My skeleton is at the museum.
Piece by piece, they put me together, an elaborate jigsaw.
Yes, it’s true that I’m very extinct.
They have done what they can to preserve me,
but I do sometimes feel neglected
under the dim lights that are defective.
Young visitors stare up at my sharp teeth.
I try not to snap at them, but drink water for relief.
Known for my fierceness,
I am gentle inside. Sometimes, I even play with butterflies.
My tall body grows restless with age.
I do not want to stay an exhibit in a cage
but venture into the city’s twinkling lights.
At night, when all the visitors have left,
I roll up my long tail to hide and move outside,
disguised underneath a very large coat
and I waltz down Broadway, avoiding the oncoming traffic.
I skirt in and out of the lights,
entering my favourite bar, where I partake of Schnapps and a cigar.
In the 19th century, they went in search of me.
Digging up my bones, they would not let me be.
My skeleton is at the museum.
Piece by piece, they put me together, an elaborate jigsaw.
Yes, it’s true that I’m very extinct.
They have done what they can to preserve me,
but I do sometimes feel neglected
under the dim lights that are defective.
Young visitors stare up at my sharp teeth.
I try not to snap at them, but drink water for relief.
Known for my fierceness,
I am gentle inside. Sometimes, I even play with butterflies.
My tall body grows restless with age.
I do not want to stay an exhibit in a cage
but venture into the city’s twinkling lights.
At night, when all the visitors have left,
I roll up my long tail to hide and move outside,
disguised underneath a very large coat
and I waltz down Broadway, avoiding the oncoming traffic.
I skirt in and out of the lights,
entering my favourite bar, where I partake of Schnapps and a cigar.
WHEN I AM FIFTY
By Dorothy Johnson-Laird
When I am fifty,
I will have more fun:
I will dance in pink culottes
and take pleasure in the sun.
My sleepwear will be mismatched, my bedding remain untucked.
The sheets will be adventurers
escaping the mattress.
When I am fifty,
I will move out of the shadows,
no longer embracing corners.
I will sport golden, glittering sandals.
When I am fifty,
I will tap-dance in the lane,
imagine I am Gene Kelly
singing in the rain.
I will go to bed with a clear conscience
and practice collecting my dreams.
I will keep a journal of wild animals that have never been seen.
When I am fifty,
I will not always seek to please others
but look inwards for nurture
and find teas that bring comfort:
The tang of mint, the scent of hibiscus,
the calm of chamomile, the sweet taste of citrus.
I will avoid the quick fix of junk food,
the soda that spills over,
the hamburger that tastes of wood.
Self-doubt will be gone.
Instead will be a stronger woman
who spends less time second guessing
or fretting about unnecessary debate.
When I am fifty,
I will become immersed in poetry.
I will let Blake’s Tyger
be a gentle entrancement.
As his words linger closer,
they will be a warm embrace.
I will relax on the sofa
with a warm blanket near my face.
I will write with determination,
with wire glasses, laser sharp.
I will have less time for nonsense and more time for my art.
I will have more fun:
I will dance in pink culottes
and take pleasure in the sun.
My sleepwear will be mismatched, my bedding remain untucked.
The sheets will be adventurers
escaping the mattress.
When I am fifty,
I will move out of the shadows,
no longer embracing corners.
I will sport golden, glittering sandals.
When I am fifty,
I will tap-dance in the lane,
imagine I am Gene Kelly
singing in the rain.
I will go to bed with a clear conscience
and practice collecting my dreams.
I will keep a journal of wild animals that have never been seen.
When I am fifty,
I will not always seek to please others
but look inwards for nurture
and find teas that bring comfort:
The tang of mint, the scent of hibiscus,
the calm of chamomile, the sweet taste of citrus.
I will avoid the quick fix of junk food,
the soda that spills over,
the hamburger that tastes of wood.
Self-doubt will be gone.
Instead will be a stronger woman
who spends less time second guessing
or fretting about unnecessary debate.
When I am fifty,
I will become immersed in poetry.
I will let Blake’s Tyger
be a gentle entrancement.
As his words linger closer,
they will be a warm embrace.
I will relax on the sofa
with a warm blanket near my face.
I will write with determination,
with wire glasses, laser sharp.
I will have less time for nonsense and more time for my art.