Toad

Sit on a brown bench.

Heavy, it’s heavy.

I take it with me.

It sits in my throat, it stands on my shoulders, it pulls on my face.

Such an ugly thing.

Pretend that it’s gone.

Pretend it was never there —

That this is not happening to you.

Or him. Or them.

But it croaks in the background, hidden from view.

Under dead leaves, dead branches, dead trees.

The toad — reminding me that you are dying too.