POETRY

 

Eggs Over Easy


Watching the woman with the baby pass
my door with breast pump in hand,
I surreptitiously slide The Pill onto my tongue.

When my only reason to pop a kid
is to guarantee an obsessive heir
to my vast comic book collection,
it's time to double-up on the diaphragms
and buy barrels of spermicidal lubricant.

Responsible master of my uterverse,
only 27 more days until red selfishness
ejects another President of the United States.