Peeping Frogs

I saw you in a painting
the day after that time at the pond –

translating peeping frogs’ calls
with their metronomic messages of love

– where you swore to never ever
be bored again

You were flanked by an angel
looked heavenward
with a face of pale tearing
and tears of stale failing
but here
here you just sat winged by desk legs
“Hyde & Smith, how may I help you?”

I stood in the waiting room
with the art and anxiety
wondering how long one was supposed to pace
how long the phone to ring
how long society to perch on –
“Hyde & Smith, how may I help you?”
– mirrors of infinite regression
or progression whoever knows which anymore

and the pastel face became your face
and the pastel tears became your tears
“Hyde & Smith, how may I help you?”

like a siren on a rock
day after day
night after night

They asked me to leave before you could
and I never forgave you for that

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