Filled With Chalk
She squats and points,
her little face is all aglow.
Her smile is wide
She’s grinning ear to ear, you know.
She’s very pleased
at the discovery she’s made.
The little frog
is sitting frozen in the shade.
He knows that she
is his protector and his queen,
but he’s not sure
now that I’m also on the scene.
When did you know, I ask of her,
that frogs could talk and you could hear?
She seems so sure
I find it easy to concur.
I’ve always known,
she says, and most convincingly.
They sit outside
my room at night and sing to me.
I call him Fred;
He has a loud and squeaky croak.
He’s very sad;
his girl was gone when he awoke.
He calls her name
And sings a song about the moon.
I love him so;
I told him she will be home soon.
Why do you think, I ask of her,
That I can’t hear them when they talk.
The frogs told me
That grownup heads are filled with chalk.
When do you think, I ask of her,
That you won’t hear them anymore?
She looks real sad,
When I get big, like maybe four.
You are my frog, I say to her,
for me there never was a choice.
I love you so,
in my best squeaky, croaky voice.
She hugs me hard
And says Big Daddy, never leave.
Where would I go, I say to her,
My little frog, my Genevieve
Copyright © Jeff Kyser | Year Posted 2022
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