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.