I read once

that in the centuries before

home refrigerators were invented

it was apparently routine

to throw a frog

in milk,

in the milk jug,

so it would not sour.

Or sour as fast.

Because of some secretion

on its skin,

how they managed to figure that out, I wonder.

A live frog

into the milk.

I imagine it

sitting,

staring into the distance,

green,

not understanding,

reflecting on its stupid life,

in the white darkness,

or not even that much.

Just thinking

He should call someone, thinking

not his father though, thinking

he should take out the recycling bin, thinking

I should be sleeping, thinking,

why can’t I fall asleep again, thinking,

what is this noise in my head, thinking, what am I, thinking,

why am I so misunderstood, thinking, I have to pee again,

thinking, most of the world is suffering,

and I don’t even have a driver’s license, thinking,

whenever I want to talk about something, I start with myself, thinking

what a dumb habit that is too, thinking,

my phone fell into a bowl of soup, thinking, I fell asleep for a second,

thinking, look at this landscape, thinking,

everyone is annoying, thinking,

myself included, thinking,

all I know is I’m here, thinking,

I don’t know anything else about myself, thinking,

at most, the last song is really where I start hitting my stride on the dance floor, thinking,

an alarm is about to go off, thinking,

again, thinking,

in my dreams, chickadees peck at my brain

and forget which way is up, thinking,

this is how apathetic hell laughs at itself, thinking,

that wasn’t an aphorism,

put down your pens, thinking,

come on let me sleep, thinking,

I’m not even here, just my thoughts, thinking,

the frog

in the milk.

Maybe the whole thing isn’t even true,

I don’t know where I read it,

or whether it’s for certain.

Or whether this is even a poem,

and

what do I know about frogs anyway.

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Translated by Timea Sipos