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Vasectomy
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It’s the finality that makes us think.
Makes him and I, stop. And think.
Options will be snipped, among other things.
For a few days, we clamor into the dugout,
and watch the game in thought.
We are often the ball,
flying as we’re hit.
This time though, we will step up to bat,
place that ball down the third base line,
because we think it may be safest there.
The best defensive play we’ve got.
Of course, it could get fielded,
thrown back,
hit us square between the eyes,
or some other fleshy part,
that our helmet doesn’t cover.
Dinner party conversation.
He’s had it done, and him, and him, and him, and him.
Not a problem.
So easy.
In and out, so to speak.
Says one guy, I sometimes get the urge,
when the sun is bright through the kitchen window,
to curl up and sleep in the warm rays.
The promise of free sex.
Visions of passion,
without mechanical constraints,
or lifelong consequences.
Snip and solder,
cauterize.
Appointment at 2:30.
Tomorrow.
And I say,
step up to the plate,
and bring me home big shooter.
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by
Mary Brooks
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