Dinosaurs.

Because of four-year-olds.

Poetry is often borne of passion. And there are few passions as deep and all-consuming as that which a certain four (and three quarters) -year-old has for his dinosaurs.

This one's for you, Mitchy.

There are dinosaurs in kitchen drawers and underneath the couch,
There’s a bevy of those beasts that came before us.
When I stepped on a Triceratops in socks, I hollered “Ouch!”
But I’m quite relieved it wasn’t Stegosaurus.
In the hallway, there’s a Harpymimus and a Pterosaur;
In the bath, the Compsognathus always floats.
Though the different Saurapods can be confusing, now I’m sure;
That Omeisaurs have got the longest throats.
I hear stomping from another room, and know that it’s a boy;
For whom each Terataphoneus lives on;
And his plastic Archaeopteryx is more than just a toy;
And his Tarchia and his Iguanadon.
There are drawings. Oh, the drawings! Giant beasts with battle scars;
Of each species, genus, family and order.
And although I know I’ll miss it when he’s into girls and cars,
Then at least the names will be a little shorter.