 Polliwogs
Penny Perry
My husband collects women's smiles.
He dyes his hair soft black, shines
his shoes and confides, ''Nancy and I
may have a drink after work."
I used to catch polliwogs.
My nose close to moss,
I'd slip my hands in clear
creek water, curl my fingers
around the darting forms
and slide the polliwogs
in a jar.
They never looked as beautiful
at home.
They swam in tiny
circles in the roasting pan
I nestled under the avocado tree.
They seemed to miss the clean
stones, rush of water, the smell
of wild thyme.
They disappeared from the murky water
I had failed to change.
I told myself they had sprouted
legs and left the pan. They were now
frogs singing in my yard.
My husband comes home late.
Sitting alone in bed,
I can see the women's smiles
wriggling in his pocket.
I wonder
how long they will live.