Dead Frogs The frogs sound off at once & stop just the same what do they do day and night in the muck under the water besides interrupt my train of thought? The little ones the small ones with small brains get stuck in my stairwell wet green in the evening gray dead dried decomposed by the time I wake. I try to usher them out but I grow tired of chasing their hops & I think of all the grand ideas they’ve ruined with their bellows. So I pass over shut my door draw my shutters pull my blinds violently wait because I know in the morning I will mourn their broken bodies & wonder if I could have saved them instead.
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