ICE DRAGONS

In a museum we find them

where they fell:

ichthyosaurus

with seven dragon whelps

in her belly;

sail-backed stegosaurus,

an armor-plated goon

wielding ratchety paws

and eye-coddling breath.

A pinafore of scales,

the sauropod toddles,

fanning its tail

through the mud

as it vamps

from bayou to sandpile,

teeth big as loaves,

a rosebud for a brain.

Another dips

a gravy-boat head to drink,

while bird-monsters

on shoe-leather wings

snuff the quickness

from a shrew.

Squat lizards spit bile,

and baggy-throated tots

trot after prey

with pipette-like claws.

Did they live on to test

Galahad and St. George?

Did they feel

the sudden whammy

of a global gasp?

We blizzard guesses

at their habitat.

We puzzle who

or what’s to blame.

Only the bare bones

of a life remain.