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de River_Ross

de River_Ross

the rumbling engine
quiets, I flick off
the car headlights,
stumble out of
my car, exhausted
after work but
at least it's done and
I can sleep.
it's dark and
all of a sudden,

there's something
on the porch;
I nearly trip over it
and my groceries
fly out of my hands, scatter
across the coarse cement.
I cry out and peer closer;
it's a tiny frog.
him, unperturbed;
me, seething:

we stare at each other in a cold silence.

"YOU DID THIS TO ME!" I abruptly scream at him;
step over him, slam the door behind me,
fling my keys against the wall and collapse
to the floor,
shaking, weeping.
After a moment, I collect myself and
cross back to my door,
open it to apologize
but the frog is no longer there,

and no matter how long I look for him,
no matter how many times
I open my door at night
or how many leaves I overturn
or puddles I swim through
or shadows I search
or years I wait,
he never appears again and it is
a regret that haunts me
for the rest of my life.