What's a Mongol?
Della asks Froggie,
her cousin. He sits
beside her on her bed,

flicking through her
CDs. What people
used to call people
with Downs, he says,

taking out a Talking
Heads album, gazing
at the cover. Why?
Who said it? Della

stares at him, tongue
resting on her lower
lip, her eyes bright,
drinking him all in.

Man on the bus said
to me. The *******,
Froggie says. *******?
Della looks at Froggie's

tattooed hands. Not
nice person, he says.
She lays her head on
his tattooed arm. He

flicks some more CDs.
Man said sit elsewhere
to me. If I'd been there,
I'd have floored him.

Floored him? Della
twirls a finger in a lock
of hair. Flattened the
***. She closes her bright

eyes, imagines the man
flattened. Did you? What?
Sit elsewhere. She nods.  
I'd have thrown him off

the fecking bus, Froggie
says, taking out an Oasis
album and turning it over.
She opens her eyes, rubs

her head on the tattooed arm.
Man said I shouldn't be
out in public. Why? Said
they used to lock my type up.

Who was this prat? Don't
know. Stranger on the bus.
Froggie puts down CDs and
rubs her head.  She looks at

him, feels his hand rubbing
her head. Never should have
been locked up years ago,
Froggie says. Were they?

Yes, Uncle said they were,
he worked in a mental hospital
years back. Why? Froggie
kisses her head. People were

ignorant or ashamed; locked
them out of sight. Why?
She hugs Froggie's tattooed
arm. Don't know, Del. She

closes her eyes. Tears seep.
Run her cheek. Froggie wipes
them off with his finger and
licks it. Not worry crying over.

She kisses his arm, hairy,
tattooed, blue and red, yellow.
Put on the Stone Roses. Della
takes the CD and puts it on her

lap top and sits next to Froggie.
They kiss lips and rub noses.

I live inside a small glass cage,
With plastic limbs and leaves.
There is no sun,
There is no rain,
There is no cooling breeze.
I'd love to go a courting,
But there's no one here like me.

My life began in a *******'s tank,
Never seen a real tree.
Probably wouldn't recognize one,
If it fell on top of me.
I spend my hours motionless,
Wishing I was free.

When I came here from the pet store,
There was another in poor health,
But he passed away the second day,
On an overheated shelf.
The Big Hand took his body off,
And left me by myself.

Huge faces many times my size,
Peer into my prison flask.
How nice for them; they're entertained,
But I am fading fast.
I'm just some human's knick-knack,
Inside my cage of glass.

I could have lived in a forest,
And climbed the tallest tree.
I could have had a girlfriend,
And made other frogs like me.
I could have eaten tasty bugs,
But it was not meant to be.

And come the day I breathe my last,
Inside this glassy wall,
They'll take my body out of here,
To the bathroom down the hall.
The toilet lid's my funeral bier,
And I will float in state.
The Big Hand will pull the chain,
And flush me to my fate.

i was walking through the woods just the other day
then i heard a noise not so far away
so i took a look to see what it could be
it was coming from a hole at the bottom of a tree
then i looked inside there i saw a frog
just inside the tree sat upon a log
the poor frog was crying with tears upon his face
he was very lost  from his froggie place
then i picked him up and took him to his home
now the frog was happy and never again did roam.

Summation of achievements
wrought absolute zero
pridefulness to self -
a veritable highstrong yoyo
(lame at walking the dog)
a solitudinarian devoid of xoxo
methinks (writer of these words)
Hebrew a legacy of woe
courtesy self apathy
expanding across his mein kampf
on a broader scale
analogous to predicted fallout from Project 2025,
where resultant mayhem
will trigger widespread societal upheaval
upending progressive socialism
videre licet flick of the wrist veto
where democracy writhes vis a vis death throw
signature of forty seventh president
of the United States,
the septuagenarian who trumpets hegemony,
and dons hat of dictator carte blanche
a caricature of a contortionist
trotting out dog and pony show
the former a growling
super gnasher tooth flasher
(actual name of a book title
written by Daniel Pinkwater
and featured on Reading Rainbow
Episode 8 in Season 7
and originally aired on March 28, 1990),
which year a tad less than my half-life ago
when this "Froggie Went a Courtin'"
an amphibious embarkation  
whereat yours truly pitched hither and yon,
to and fro within a tempestuous relationship
with the then girlfriend
who visited me at 324 Level Road
(the vestige of Glen Elm Estate
whittled down to about a half dozen acres
with trace of formal gardens
long since reclaimed by mother nature
as overgrown woodland)
my boyhood domicile,
but became a permanent fixture
within the Harris household
constantly assailing me
to pledge my troth
after we already
consummated consensual coitus
aptly enough at the
Evansburg Park residence of Steve Cummings
(principally prompted with reckless abandon
by unsheathed phallus)
******* occurred countless times,
though devoid of mutual (of Omaha)
fundamental ******* prolongation
courtesy hair trigger minute man of mine,
which got fired
from his miniscule silo
discovering seminal virility sometime
around mid March of nineteen ninety six
when we became ensnared in the parent trap
on a freaky Friday - the ides of March
where we bickered over
what to name the unborn child
gender revealed at ultrasound
during the second trimester,
typically between eighteen
and twenty two weeks of pregnancy,
but by the second trimester,
the baby's genitals are developed enough
for the sonographer
to identify the *** with reasonable certainty,
which bouncing baby girl
set the wife on buying sprees
at upscale thrift stores within environs
around 2700 Elroy Avenue Hatfield,
which afforded a grand view
of a meat processing plant
the first apartment complex
we moved into after pledging our troth
yours truly designated as a forerunner
to quasi proto doordash
heavily patronizing Boston Market
temporarily escaping vocalizing future star student
who also tested her pipes
when we settled down to sleep
all three of us crammed upon a crib mattress
keeping the bedroom door closed
a minor inconvenience
against an undeterred plague of water bugs,
whose population kept in check
by sprinkling borax powder
underneath sink, where they throve
within the warm and damp plumbing fixtures.