'No idea,' says the woman handing her the can of floating food sticks and calling, 'Hey Lester, do you know how long water frogs are supposed to live?' to the groomer heading out to lunch.
The frog owner elaborates. 'The frog's 4 inches long and still kicking. It was a tadpole when my son was in kindergarten. Sunday, he graduates from college.'
'No kidding?' -- three mammals grin in unison at the amphibian's accomplishment.
'Your frog's got some serious longevity going there,' says the groomer.
Serious longevity.
A friend tells me she stopped writing songs once she moved beyond her divorce. The songs soothed the monster but as grief gave out, my friend laid down her pen. We stand beside the circulation desk, in sisterhood, pondering. The poet's strangled need yields squawks of rage; acceptance finds her famished but inert.
'Words fail me.' Oh sure, observes the lexicon, blame your writer's block on words you can't come up with. Diaspora is not of words but of the pen holder's nerve endings, dissolving in shades of gray. What does it take to bundle synapses into the fire breathing, word snorting, talon flexing wonderbeast? Agony gets the job done. But who endures that hell for long?
Longevity.
Pollywog in captivity: sprout legs, kick up sediment, scrounge for factory food in a glassed pond. Or, it's goddess incarnate, checking out the humanoids.
Ribbit, dollbaby, let's go boogie down tonight.
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