There’s a little toy dinosaurCrouching on my desk.He’s speckled and green.His upright smile remains. He wobbles if I touch him.His plastic balance Can be broken With a breath and a smile. His dumb eyes can’t see.His blind nose can’t smell.He can’t speak,Or filter air. His name is PicklesAnd he will sit in a landfillForeverWith his gaudy grin. The MADE IN CHINA label,Strapped across his belly,Will remain long after The Chinese are gone. He will continue to toppleAs others join his stateAnd people make toys Of them and their stupid smiles. But I will pass beneath,The musty weight of Earth,Becomes my bonesBecomes my Earth. But Pickles,As he wobbles on my desk,Will stay.