A traffic jam that spans an entire epoch
Is followed by daily punishments of
Dreary Sisyphean meanderings,
Followed by even more traffic
In sweltering heat and sticky humidity.
With all energy drained from
Lungs, limbs, and mind,
He shuffles into his house
Seeking only relief and brief reprieve.
As he unbuttons his soaked shirt,
“Do me,” assaults his ears
With cheerful urgency.
“My basal temperature spiked today.”
Probable ovulation noted,
The expectation is clear.
She lies on her back, spread eagle,
With a pillow under her hips.
“Can’t it wait awhile—
long enough for a shower—
long enough to freshen up?”
His pleas are unwelcome.
Dejected and defeated, he
Peels off and gets to work.
Somewhere, future progeny
Await their turn at being.
And this is how the world blooms—
Not with a bang, but a whimper—
Mechanical sex, dead eyes, routine pollination.
Worker bees serve the Queen
Of procreation with neither question nor zeal.
A poet, somewhere, puts down his pen,
And waits for the next fantasy to fall
Into his frail imaginary pool.