I nestle down into my seat
atop a dragon
of feathers and springs.
Its spine curves beneath me,
soft and yielding.
A hoard is hidden,
entrenched within its depths.
It collects little lost treasures
in the confines of cushions—
bits and bobs, corroded copper coins,
long faded and patterned
ponytail holders,
the dog’s favorite chew toy,
gnarled and gnawed.
I always scold her
for shoving and searching
against its belly.
She sniffs and scratches
against the scales sewn shut,
paws persistent, nose prodding
and pressing against fragile inseams.
But she knows better than I—
The dragon has stolen our favorite things…
Now its keep must be breached--
Its belly unstitched.
Still I hesitate, my hands hovering.
Treasures
as they may have once been
to me,
I know that the dragon reveres them
much more.
He holds them for me,
as glittering gold,
understanding the value,
the memories they hold.
So, I’ll feed my dear dragon,
who’ll turn scraps into relics
of reminiscence,
who'll guard
faded fragments of living.
Sink deeper into the worn spot
between his wings—
content and oblivious
to his keepings.
-H Gibson
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