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
Mister Right-Now looking pretty good.