My girl left for Antartica
in a Nazi flying saucer.
I told her, "I can be cold for you,"
but Lake Vostok's allure was too much.
She wanted vast water, sealed
for aeons under thick glaciers.
I could only scrape thin ice
from my windshield.
That continent drifts through literature
and myth. I too bury monsters there.
Amy drinks wine with Szukalski's
yetis in Neuschwabenland.
I have the sound of spinning tires
from neighbors too lazy to shovel.