Confused and bewildered
out comes a whimper,
not loud and shrill,
but a cry against will.
up the path follows the dog
only to reveal the log
upon which he sits
spitting out pits
of the passion fruit
finally the bug hits the suit
he fans him in dismay
and rests his head in a way,
a way that no contortionists can.
almost as if there's a third man
but no,
he is alone
even if the bull frog
that was once on the log
was there
well they'd be an odd pair
for that image would be so grand,
to see that man rest his hand
upon that frog
oh and shall we forget the dog
the dog which found him
but what is it with them
for none are real
no heart to feel
all just an imagination's sight
to watch take flight.
oh yes, somewhere the dog
will find this frog
and that day
the man just may
rest his hand on that head.
