Toad as Metaphor 

On the anniversary of your death,

I coughed up a toad as squat 

as a whoopee cushion. It silently hopped

over to your favourite armchair,

thumbed through the pages 

of The Times with its fishing reel

tongue (an impressive feat, I'll admit),

and sipped on the quiet pond

of a cup of warm Darjeeling. 

The toad said nothing when asked

of its whereabouts all these years.

The toad declined to answer

questions concerning its behaviour.

The toad's eyes were as blank 

as a switched off television set.

Before it hopped out of the front door,

I could've sworn there was a man's shadow 

tangled in its own, as if caught 

in some unnatural current.