In it
squats a lonely toad,
free to do
whatever it wants–
we’ll find in the ether
any number of toads
squatting or leopards
trotting or penguins
jotting off to the island
of solemn decency.

Where do we go from here?
A foamy brine off the coast of Antigua,
or a sordid affair thrown together
in the tumult of boredom during
early morning hours. Or
maybe a hat reciting Neruda
as though it were a right soggy sort.


Spoiled by an intermission again, it seems.
We’ll have to tighten our focus
before the feature takes over once more,
and what’s more, we’ll be lofted
straight up over the parlors
and thyroid monotony, to where you reel in
your entertainment for the evening
with a smitten stare off into the very cosmos
that created such a performance.


Author: Aidan Badinger I am a poet. I write poems. Titles and subjects and subsequent readership are all part of one fragmented figment of our universe, and it's nice that we take it so seriously. Hopefully the craft remains and grows stronger for our children.

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