Tick Tick

 

The biological doomsday clock’s hands

 

stand at five minutes to midnight. Her peers report

 

turning peri-menopausal. This upscale cocktail watering hole

 

is where her soul-mate will first see her. That’s the hope

 

since one Happy Hour bachelor will catch

 

his future with her tonight, probably

 

the tall strong healthy specimen.

 

If love matches and new babies

 

went together automatically,

 

that would be utopian, but the nearly-random gamble

 

feels much less capricious since she’s

 

down to a handful of eggs,

 

driven by the instinctual

 

mother-wish,

 

Mister Right-Now looking pretty good.

 

 

 

 

r h p   h o m e

 

 

T o d d   M e r c e r


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