The Internet is a strange place.

I semi-routinely search for myself and But Our Princess to see if anyone’s talking about it.  But recently, I noticed a sudden spike of people searching for a particular poem:  “Frogger.”  So I Googled that myself, and found myself in surprisingly good company right here.  (I’m presuming Yeats got tired of people mispronouncing his last name so instead switched it to something much more common.)

As best as I can tell, this is an academic-decathalon-esque competition, which means a bunch of high school students will be analyzing my poem competitively.  (A delicious thought.)  I’m tempted to post some red herring analysis about the poem here, such as how it rebalances our concepts of masculinity in a twenty-first-century America driven largely by capitalist blah blah blah, but really I feel much more certain about two aspects of the poem:

1.)  It is about imagining a journey that was not actually taken.  (This is evident from the opening sentence:  “… I imagine the journey we didn’t take.”)

2.)  This poem was inspired by the video game Frogger(This is evident from the title.)

On the list, the links to the other poems are from the Poetry Foundation, Writer’s Almanac, Bartleby, etc.  And mine … is from a blog.  (And I was grateful to Jeffery Berg for posting it here.  Perhaps he’s wondering about what I presume is a spike in traffic to that post.)

For better or worse, when you put work on the Internet, you never know where it’s going to wind up.  I’m also posting the poem below.  Partially because clicks on my blog help validate my existence as a person, partially for all of you desperate high-schoolers eager to analyze my deconstruction of the classist politics inherent in the Eisenhower interstate system and U.S.-Canada relations so warm you’d think they were bathwater.

Remember:  It’s all in the wrist, kids, it’s all in the wrist.

* * *


Sometimes, in the closet of 3 a.m., I imagine the journey we didn’t take. The go-kart track in Fargo where we slammed around corners as easily as swinging a stopwatch on its lanyard. The clouds slinking like submarines through the ocean of an Oklahoma sky. Otters in the Snake River. The girl in the sporting goods store in Cranbrook, British Columbia—purple dress, pink hair, a skull-and-crossbones tattoo on her ankle—standing between us and the fishing poles, saying, “It’s all in the wrist, boys, it’s all in the wrist.”

Then I get out of bed, stand on the deck, look at the stars. The bullfrogs glunk their love songs to the moon. The grass blades gather beads for their morning tiaras of dew. Even the highway is done with driving for now.

I go back to bed, try dipping my toes in the river of sleep. I can almost picture the sunset over the Platte River we didn’t see, ripe as a nectarine, or hear water churning like an engine in a ravine below while I straddle a fallen log.

Some things are too dangerous to cross.