When a frog checks into a hotel,
I'd imagine he doesn't express a preference
about the size of his bed. King or two Queens,
it's all the same to Mr. Green. He doesn't even
give a damn about the thread-count of the sheets.

And forget the key-card, he can squeeze beneath
the heavy, dark-red door. With a flick of his
tongue, the lights snap on in the hall. The
carpet is somewhat damp and sticky
so he's exceedingly pleased.

Watching a bit of televised war coverage,
a bit of blood spilled in Iraq, he wonders
when people will get tired of killing
and re-discover the calm of swimming.

Opening the window to night, he watches
his dinner fly in: three gnats, two houseflies,
a bevy of bumbling mosquitoes.

With his belly full, he croaks for a while,
hoping to find a wife, but an agitated fist
thumping the wall is his only reply.

So, silently, he makes his way towards
the only space in the room that matters,
the only space that can help his homesickness,
the only space he can really rest:
in the pale, smooth pond of porcelain,
he splashes down, for the night,
in the toilet.

Wolff Bowden buys time to write by selling artwork and performing with his band, The Orphan Trains. After growing up in a Florida Swamp, he was named Artist of the Millenium by ArtExpo Miami. His paintings hang in the collections of Billy Collins and Frank McCourt. His poetry has appeared in dozens of literary journals, including The Madison Review and Folio. He has published two books: Orphanage of Imagination (2002) and Heavyweight Champion of the Night (2008). Wolff's poem "Into The Day of Saturn" was recently quoted in a horoscope by astrologer Rob Brezsny. For more info, please visit: www.wolffantastic.com and www.theorphantrains.com.