“Raaaaak! Awrrrk! Kraaa! Urrgg!” I heard from down the hall,
A piercing, plaintive, prehistoric sort of call.

“What’s going on?” I called out, and soon my wife replied.
“Your son’s become a pterodactyl. Seriously. No lie.”

It’s true – our little boy, our blue-eyed Davey Flower
had become an awkward, flapping, pointy dinosaur.

His sister promptly cheered and laughed, the bratty little wench.
“Yay, my baby brother’s gone!” then whined about the stench.

And as he tried to flap his wings, she quickly wondered too,
“Maybe could he do some tricks like the parrot at the zoo?”

His mother started out concerned, but quickly justified it
As punishment for messy rooms and making her so tired.

What do you feed a pterodactyl? He’s clearing goldfish from the tank.
No, you can’t eat the hamster too! And put down baby Frank!

Chicken fingers, popcorn, fries. Figures, some things never change,
That’s all he’d eat before too! Even then we thought it strange.

Davey gained more energy at whatever rate we lost it.
It wore off around midnight, when we were just exhausted.

By then he’d mastered flapping, and hovering in place,
And had started eyeing windows, contemplating outer space.

Now he’s grown, and when I ask if he recalls those days,
He says, while diapering his kid, “It was just a phase.”

But I wonder if he dreams at night and maybe sort of cries.
I still do when I recall my blue-eyed son once knew the way to fly.