When I looked into his beady

eyes, saw his murky green flatfooted

squat, I must admit I felt

some maternal pity for the old boy. Until he

started to tell me the stories of castles

and velvet and the shimmering gold flash

of horns in the sunlight, and green

valleys echoing victorious battle cries all

rich and majestic glistening.



All this (he told me) could be yours. For a kiss.



And I believed him and took him home

distastefully and let him love me although

he contrasted

(verdant against my blonde-on-gold)

with me in my crimson-black bedroom.



That was such a long time ago that I

have trouble believing him now, seeing the castles and

the clouds as more than empty promises, and I see

instead another picture of me, gray-on-black, still

married to a

mossy

green

frog.



(plop)