Poetry

Toad in the Mud

When I burp up the words

Image by author and his 12-year-old daughter.

What are the words tonight
After this day of fear?
Of shaking in my roots,
Of trembling.
Of icy helves collapsing my chest.

I don’t want to scratch
I don’t want to scribe
And my fountain pen is clogged.
I feel quite stuck in fact!

And a toad is pushing,
Slipping and sliding,
Forcing down my esophagus.
To the belly!
To the muck!

And now it’s there!
What are you about Mr. Toad,
Wallowing in the mud?
In the place where my ancestors sit?
Will you shit and stink it up?

I don’t know
Are you sad?
Maybe mad?
You could just be alone,
Maybe you’d like another
Toad to come sit down there too.
Something with warts and wiry hairs,
Something as ugly as you.