“frogs and the Boston Strangler” by Michael Estabrook

I’m at work,

at my desk, finishing up a poem

about frogs (Seems that everything

in my life ends up in a poem

one way or another,

it’s sad yes I know it is a very sad thing,

but what can you do?)

when one of my fellow-workers

sticks his bald, shiny head

into my office and says,

“Hey I heard this great joke

on TV last night about a frog . . .”

Of course I’m stunned by the coincidence

but can’t say anything about it

because nobody at work knows

I’m a poet when I’m not at work,

like the Boston Strangler was

a strangler when he wasn’t driving a cab.