Author: John Grey

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.

By the way. Eurydice called. She didn’t leave a number.
She merely said, “I’ve been bitten by a snake,
died, am somewhere in the Underworld… .bummer…
and will try again later.” Big mistake.
Because what do you do, ridiculous man,
but leap down the fiery rabbit hole after her.
As if a golden lyre wasn’t enough, you can
rejoice, the way clear now to not only be enchanter
of beast and tree and rocks, smooth and tough,
but every lovely not named Eurydice.
And Hades was bewitched by you, enough.
Three notes, I’m convinced, veni vidi, vici.
You can have her back, bloody snake-bite and all.
But Hell has a rider in its contract, you can ill afford
To look back one last time, your call,
which is as good as saying to you, don’t play a G chord
on that stringed instrument of yours, sublime.
You looked back. And your wife is dead as a sausage.
Blame your twitchy neck muscles this time.
By the way. Eurydice called. She didn’t leave a message.