Never a Lack of a Target
An afterthought of life is death, but frogs
Sing always, solely of old age or death.
The rest of us allow unwholesome smogs
Of daily life to fill our songs. Frogs’ breath
Is drawn in only for their threnody,
For ours as well perhaps, for all we know.
Perhaps they sing of John F. Kennedy
And Martin Luther King, the bullet’s blow
Inside the brain or body. Maybe croaks
Bewail Lee Harvey Oswald’s murder by
A crook. This much is certain. Nothing chokes
The singing of the frogs. It does not die.
Perhaps they croak about James Earl Ray.
The singing fits. It never goes astray.
~ Phillip Whidden