I haven’t always been a frog. 

I was a man, once–

A good man,

A good enough man,

Okay, not precisely 

A prince. 

Then one day, 

The water rose, and lo–

The beginning, sad and slow,

Of my American Amphibian Horror Show.

HOUR 1:

I called the advice nurse. 

I said, “I have neon green atopic dermatitis.” 

“Maybe it’s stress?” she said.

HOUR 2:

I was referred to the dermatopathologist

For a full-body biopsy.

(I don’t recommend it.) 

I said, “Well, what about the webbed hands

And toes?”

He said, “Well, maybe you’re somatizing. 

Have you tried losing weight?”

HOUR 3: 

I was sent on to the transmogrification specialist 

For a consultation and some cursework.

I said, “I’ve got a case of submersion 

Come conversion–

I’ve got gill flaps 

Under my collar tabs.

I’ve got a rising water level, 

And a curse, a curse I’m certain

That if not circumvented shortly

Could put me in a hearse. 

Or–ribbit–a fate much… 

(swampier?)

Well. You know. Worse.”

And the transmogrification specialist said, 

“That’s what we do to frogs–

We put you under water.

You’ve just got an aversion to immersion–

Do you really mean to tell me

That even as you’re growing gills, 

You still can’t breathe?”

The water rose above my head.

My tongue went uncurling 

Unfurling, 

Then, deflated,

It lay still.

Now, I avoid bathtubs, altogether. 

I’m a shower man, through and through.

And, if nothing else,

Orthopedic oxblood brogues 

Really do hide webbed toes

Far better than they used to.