Choruses

"Male bullfrogs aggregate into groups called choruses." - "Bullfrog," Wikipedia

I buoy up like a bullfrog's croak, 

closely timed to evoke the strength

of packs, a masterclass

in virility.  I sit by the window and look out

wearing a pajama top five sizes too big
with sprigs of holly and stars, while cars
plow cautious furrows through the rain.
The drivers wave, I look
like a quiet lady with a book while behind me
my kitchen sinks into ruthless anarchy.
They'd never guess how it goes in here.
We all need temples, and gods
to rail against, my railing is doused
with the spaghetti sauce I tossed while soused
and dreaming of some old lover
the kind who sneaks you notes
of love with some other woman's name scratched out,
whose thumb finds just that right spot
of soreness in your neck, who'd trek
through the snow and sleet to see you
only to knock on your neighbor's door,
"they all look the same,"
the sort that makes you doubt
you exist to him, or without.

Summer is that stain that soaks into the dirt
after the long chisel of winter has scratched
its claw and carved a plank
of the earth, after the rank and mirthless
thaw of March, after the glue and weld,
the spring rains that held that first hint
of something building, when the whole world's an erection
of a cathedral no scaffolding can contain,
that sweaty time when we're all grappling
with one sting or another, when venoms run high
and the light is still long, and half naked women can sit
alone by their windows, and sigh together,
and read for a bit, and hum along.