To Split Him In Two

It's not easy to carry a poem bag, when you are two frogs.

Especially with the wind blowing.

Many times it has escaped their webbed grasp and blown into the bushes.

And they have retrieved it.

We'll probably miss the train, says the knowlesi.

Then we'll just catch the next one, says Quiet-tartus. I imagine they go all the time.

Yes, says the knowlesi. Trains will go all the time.

And what does it matter if we're not on the same one as Arthur? says Quiet-tartus.

I thought he had the ticket, says the knowlesi.

He doesn't, says Quiet-tartus. Only one for the plane.

The knowlesi remembers that he already knows this.

And frogs don't need a ticket, says Quiet-tartus.

If they're with someone who has a ticket, says the knowlesi.

We haven't tested that, says Quiet-tartus. 

No, says the knowlesi.

He looks up at the poem bag, which they are holding aloft as they travel.

Quiet-tartus looks up at it too.

A gust of wind tries to take it.

Hold tight, says the knowlesi.

I am, says Quiet-tartus. We can't lose it. 

It's our inspiration, says the knowlesi.

I know, says Quiet-tartus. 'Saint Michael poured down his fury on the devil'.

'To split him in two', says the knowlesi.

I wonder if it would be easier to carry if we split it in two, says Quiet-tartus.

That would wreck the poem, says the knowlesi.

Front from back, says Quiet-tartus. Not horizontal.

Then who gets to carry the poem side? asks the knowlesi.

We'll take turns, says Quiet-tartus.

They stop, to work on splitting the poem bag in two.

They are working on it when a car passes slowly and stops a short distance ahead of them.

A little kid gets out. And her mother.

They head for the bushes, to pee.