Tyrannus Rex

An overnight dusting of snow
has applied a loving texture
to underscore complex designs.
Seems a shame to disturb it,
but grocery shopping and collecting
the mail require us to brush
the car and driveway clean enough
to exit without accident.
As we’re wielding our whisk brooms
and scrapers I recount my dream.
Our scholars’ convention elected
Tyrannus Rex as president.
In his orange wig he tricked us
into believing he was human
enough to foster scholarship
on the work of Arthur Golding,
Thomas Wyatt, and Henry James.
When he started gnawing furniture
we ran outside into snowfall
that prickled with acidic intent.
And here we are, clearing enough
of that snowfall to enable
a normal day of errands. In life,
we wouldn’t vote for a dinosaur,
even to lead a clutch of scholars
dedicated to wasting their lives
writing essays no one will read.
The sky looks slightly ashamed.
This snow isn’t weighty enough
to challenge us. On the weekend
a graver storm will unfold,
and we’ll bend our bodies in all
directions to clean up the mess—
one elaborate flake, then another.

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