Austin Kuntz
ANGRY FROG
On the crossroad theater, not yet dim lit by streetlamps,
I stagger by holding a scarf close to the lump in my throat,
fearing the waiting spotlight cars have revealed me not pretty
enough to wear a dress. Interrupting my final step onto the sidewalk
is a stump. It’s knotted with bumps so familiar to me, on my neck
and on everything that I try to hide. Grass, leaves, moss like stray hairs
that just won’t see the stump as dead. The overcast is a blessing,
and makes me wish to sit as a frog here and croak my displeasure
at the lack of rain, complaining a wish without a wishful tone that
the sky will open to slime my skin and glisten every warted bump:
The angry frog would shine and bulge further the lump in her throat
bellowing louder so that all those revealed by the rain would hear the
anger of a transsexual woman. I am not made for your comfort,
she would croak and croak all the drizzle for all the bloated drivel
she has had to endure. She could endure if only walks could end
on a stump. But they can’t, and I return to myself with only
the wish, this time well in-toned, that I could croak like her.