Dragon Dreams

A tiny baby dragon would have served us well, I think.
I embroider its portrait on pillows, stencil it on teacups.
If you, my love, had consented, I would have brought one home, fed it acorns, let it sleep against the radiator because it missed its mother’s heat. It would have tasted your soups and scuffed up your paperwork. You would have named it Harry because it had no hair at all.
Oh, little dragon, dreamed of air and fish scales.
Its claws would clickety-clack across the wooden floors, a sign of life now that you are gone.
Or maybe if we’d had that dragon, you’d love me still.