On Running into a Toad Outside My Back Porch at Eight in the Evening

A poem by Nate Venarske

2021

Months--Poetry
Poetry

en-US

text

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Copyright protected by Nate Venarske. Use of materials from this collection beyond the exceptions provided for in the Fair Use and Educational Use clauses of the U.S. Copyright Law may violate federal law. Permission to publish or reproduce is required.

Note on transcription: This transcription may not reflect the poetic form established by the poet. Please refer to the PDF file of this poem available in the Files section for proper formatting.

On Running into a Toad Outside My Back Porch at Eight in the Evening

The toad won’t move. He’s begun to atrophy,
I believe. I blow gently on his back, warty as a rocky winter knoll.
He stares unblinkingly. The audacity!

A few hours ago, my shadow would’ve instilled in him vivacity—
I, his muse, inspiring him to clamber down his cavernous hole.
The toad won’t move. He’s begun to atrophy

With nightfall. He squats defiantly on bluestone as if enthroned by lapis lazuli.
With pupils as dull as yellowed glass bowls,
He stares unblinkingly. The audacity:

As I stoop down he eyeballs me without concern, ballooning his throat in tranquility,
As if his toadly majesty sat invisible!
The toad won’t move. He’s begun to atrophy—

His brain, at least. He possesses barely enough rationality to pause his trill toad rhapsody
Till I continue on my nighttime stroll. Scowling, I seize a twig and tap his skull.
He stares unblinkingly. Then, the audacity

Bubbles in his swirling eyes and morphs into a ferocity
That causes him to cock his hefty head and, losing all semblance of self-control,
The toad that wouldn’t move, that’d begun to atrophy,
He stares and blinks at me—the audacity!