Last night foreshadowed the end of time.
            Cool enough inside to light the season's first fire.
       Surprise showers soaked work shoes left out to dry.

                Morning brings ultimate freshness again.
          Hummingbirds and bumble bees are furiously back at it.
                    We sense carpe diem's wisdom -- even if some of us don't know Latin.

                     Making my daily garden pilgrimage to harvest ripe mint leaves for tea,
                          I wade between trumpet-shaped butterfly daffodils and black-eyed Susans,
              past purple-bearded irises, right up to a roly-poly happy-go-lucky banana slug.

     Or so it seemed.
   On second glance, the magnificent mass of slimy grainy yellow flab
has at least four coiled brown antennae extending from at least two heads.

       
Looking closer, I'm sure I see four or more six to eight inch bodies
            majestically slithering and writhing around each other,
      connected together by gobs of sticky white and gray mucus.

        They're all doing a little dance, circling, lunging, sideswiping
and nipping, with their tails in a courtship ritual I don't understand:
        I'd thought slugs were self-servicing hermaphrodites ... guess they find variety nicer.

Watching one of the huge protuberant tubes enter another's hole,
              I realize that these guys (gals) have humongous-sized penises
     presumably all the better for attracting interested gals (guys).

    Imagining me erecting to half my body length, I fantasize a mere fifteen minutes fame
                 for my circumcised member on the millennia-old porno walls
demonstrating such historic athletic coupling feats in Pompeii and Khajuraho.