George, stoic on a lily pad,
never budged, seldom blinked
We cousins couldn’t gig him,
bored as he was with the flutter
of the red piece of rag
on the treble hook we bobbed
under his triple chin
He survived that summer
gimping around the pond,
most of a rear leg chewed off,
splashing, jack-legging in circles
away from the shore
to escape Aunt Mamie’s
cast iron frying pan
where many a frog before him
thrashed in a splattering of lard
Gone after the first freeze,
we guessed he belched
a final croak somewhere
in the reeds where he usually hid
Even so we rooted for him
to leap for us one more time,
three legs akimbo,
left a small bowl of dried flies
from the turtle tank near the pond
in case he might have just
been joshing us
From George we learned
admiration for underfrogs
and people on the down and out
missing one thing or another