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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




Mister Right-Now looking pretty good.





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