the frog
she lays
prostrate
on a mattress in the middle of the room
drugged
by the syndrome of man
busy and bustling by
lines of people pass
one by one in orderly fashion
masks of professionalism
she tries to escape through the front door
but a careening cab crashes
back to the mattress
false faced friends fondle her
before caving into the dinge
she disappears out a window in the back
climbing down balconies
stopping to smell other peoples roses
there is a puddle
wading into the water it opens up to her
the frog she dives down deep
holding her breath
sinking to the bottom
the peace she seeks
she floats
exhales
effortlessly, intuitively
breathing in the water
the collective consciousness
she craves
