Toad hopped away
from the gas campfire,
made its way in my direction.

A purposeful beast,

​

Toad had watched the flames
from a safe distance, and

determined it was free from threat.

​

It paused for a moment
like a stray cat and
allowed me to stroke its back.

​

Toad was in no hurry to leave.
I worried it might be stunned
by a second story balcony drop

from the nearby Roadrunner Motel.

​

The owners pumped
60s commercials nonstop

through vintage radio speakers

​

and monitored their ice dispenser

for scofflaws. Toad
was zen. Toad had been
around the parking lot before.

​

It took off, finally,
hopping through the uneven gravel

towards the office,
in full view of predators.

​

Amphibian on a mission.
There could be moisture
behind the washing machine,
or some discarded vegetable matter.

​

You take what you can find

in the desert, especially

if you’re born without

​

spikes and claws. Toad
hops. That is its only defense.

​

Meanwhile, I can barely climb

the wrought iron staircase
to my hundred-dollar mattress.

​

Once there, it will take hours

for me to get comfortable.

​

I imagine Toad’s sleep

will be deeper than mine.