The Usual Magic

She’s considering kissing frogs again.
Not that there aren’t any men left
but the tiny creatures
are silky green
and sleeping on their lily pads
and therein lie the princes.
She’s learned, she says,
that there is no correlation
between the outside and the inside
And better a pond
than singles bars.
Better the discipline
of rising up from tadpole
than clutching mummy’s apron strings
or bottling the boy in boorish behavior.
She doesn’t even have to feel
that she carries the spell.
She’s just ordinary, she tells herself,
and frogs are ordinary too,
and everywhere,
especially after rains.

What does she want a prince for anyhow?
A frog, for all its homeliness,
is superior to a dilettante
with a bouffant,
in silk tights, cape,
and all the egocentric trappings
of a life of privilege
So pragmatic Julie
is out there with the frogs,
admiring but not touching.
Sure, she thinks about
what one deep kiss would do
for all of them.
A pond full of princes…
none of whom can swim.