“The Frog”

by Wayne Hogan

He reached down
deep into his pocket and
pulled out the frog.
He guessed the frog
musta been there since he
was, oh, prob’ly no older’n
four, when he would wade
with his friend James in
the little creek down below
the Turnbull home.
The frog must’ve crawled
into his pocket then,
he thought; tha’d make
him and the frog be
just about the same age, now,
give or take a year or two,
yes, just about the same age.
And he and the frog,
they’d a-been to Guadalcanal
and Iwo Jima together,
he figured. Funny . . . this
was the first he’d thought
of Guadalcanal or Iwo
in years. He was crying now,
and feeling the frog stir softly
in his hand.