by Brett Rutherford
The carved red toad,
mouth open just enough
to hold a single dime,
is a harbinger of wealth,
slow-earned, a tenth
of a dollar doled
out a thousand
thousand times,
the kind of fortune
earned only
by making, by hand,
ten thousand dumplings.
The poor batrachian,
I did not notice
until yesterday,
has only two legs,
a bit of tail
for a tripod
solidity. What of
his other legs?
For lack of dimes
did he sell them off
to a street vendor
whose frog-leg dainties
please the crowd?
That string of coins
slung over his shoulder
implies he should not be
that desperate.
His gem eyes glitter
a greedy ruby and say,
“No need for legs.
I need not leap at all.
Coins come to me,
and pale tea pours
from the heavens
to pool around me.”
Serene as Buddha,
wrinkled as sage,
squat on his I Ching
pedestal, King Toad
rules the tea table.
