He turns to an empty
whiskey barrel,
wondering if there is life
on the red planet,
or under the Venus cloud cover,
or inside her
granny panties.
He reaches for his watering can,
always a few drops to go,
dribbles a few words
of too late love.
They sit across the bar
from one another,
smiling back and forth.
The water runs out his mouth,
over his lips,
and down his chin,
his clear-cut neck,
a waterfall of love’s
last cleaning.
The Coming of the Toads 