I’m Frank, the frog collector,
and I’m happy to report
my collection’s nearly finished;
I have frogs of every sort.

I record them in my journal
so that every single frog
is accounted for completely
with an entry in my log.

I have hundreds, maybe thousands
of amphibians at home.
I have frogs of quilted fabric.
I have frogs of gleaming chrome.

I have frogs of painted porcelain,
and frogs of brass and tin.
I have frogs you open up
to find another frog within.

There are small magnetic tree frogs
clinging gently to the fridge
and Louisiana bullfrogs
on a plastic bayou bridge.

I have frogs on ancient bicycles
with shiny silver bells.
I have frogs proposing marriage
to their froggy mademoiselles.

You’ll see frogs ascending ladders.
You’ll see frogs descending stairs,
yes, and frogs reclining dreamily
in comfy leather chairs.

I have frogs with pink umbrellas.
I have frogs engrossed in books.
Even frogs that dangle fishing poles
in nonexistent brooks.

My abode is filled with frogs
from top to bottom, front to back.
There are frogs in every corner,
every crevice, every crack.

There is only one that’s missing;
just one blank space in my log.
So I’m begging, mom and dad,
can I please have a REAL frog?