2007
The night of the frog; Rhiannon came from sofa to me in the rear;
how can a ‘jumping thing’ come out from the cushion foam?
On reflection, if porch netting ajar, front door mosquito net clear
I thought that a frog might be able to come into the home.
The frog, a young thing, was sitting on the floor, unaware
of the new excitement it was beginning to create;
it noticed me, and jumped across and into the air
to get away, the rear legs seeming to inflate,
ending up, cocksure, behind the business table.
I opened the glass French door, the mosquito net;
whilst nervous, it was quite clear that it was able
to, and wanted to try to escape, but yet
it went back again. I rattled the telephone wire connection
stretching behind the table, in awkward way, with my arm
to try to get the frog to do another window inspection;
She held the curtain, somewhat jumpy, to stop any frog harm
Then Katak, at long last, escaped onto the front porch, to wait
unconcerned, by the uninterested bicycle tyre there
maybe, for the breeze to bring in a mosquito bait
then, ready, I assume, to enjoy the rest of the night air
We pushed back the furniture; she had a frog-free peer
then got back, with some concern, into the now danger-free zone
whilst I, as usual, went back to the now warm-beer rear,
with the other garden amphibians, the night, thought, me, in tone
wife, in front bedroom, chats with half the local population.
the girl lounges, watching television; the boy using computer game;
I, watching the rear frogs watching night, nsect, think of the isolation
here; this time last year, I waited for health to appear, to tame
the mat-hugging monotony of the emptiness of infection
now, I ask, what is the point of trying, attempting in the first place
when the odd are stacked in a way that no-one without
power, influence can try to move, if they attempt in the first place
a theme that runs through wretched fabric, the cloth of the human race
a frog comes into the house; in the night, an emerging philosophy
quiet, except for a Hong Kong singer, of inconsequential tone;
I, in prejudice, think, inane lyrics; in amoeba-type insipidity
thug computer game; inane show; ubiquitous, quenching hand phone
the typewriter -
a dinosaur, I can’t resist it - of office tech meant, for many
teacher, lecturer, poet, office girl etc, a part of their time
the clattering, clicking, tearing paper, movement of the return key
the noise of amateur consistence, carbon copy of waning mime
the frog grunting stiletto again;
I quip; I have no idea - a young one trying to get a mate
the girl bids me, ‘Mee’, Mum, a happy-it-is-Thursday goodnight
that tomorrow, no school, a thing they by any means don’t hate;
a rest is as good as anything, one must concur, but right?
The frog tonight; what did he think?
Why?
The barons of capitalism thought little of break and holiday;
that’s why they made money
a love of their work
a rich-memory old age, health, creating for generations to come
enjoying an 80 year acquaintance with business, appreciating
a life of active honey
it was lots of work, little play makes me
a happy boy; it was their rule of thumb
