George, stoic on a lily pad,
never budged, seldom blinked.
We cousins never gigged 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,
most of a rear leg chewed off,
gimping around the pond,
splashing, jacklegging in circles
away from the shore,
away from Aunt Mamie’s
cast iron frying pan
where many a frog before him
had thrashed its last
in the roiling lard.
Gone after the first freeze,
we guessed he’d belched
a final croak,
kicked a remaining member
in the reeds where he hid,
kicked as we rooted for him
to leap a lasting looper:
“Come on, George, you old toad.
Give ‘er another flicker,
another rounder for the bog.”