Prohibitive as the concrete meridian
where the onramp meets
the buckled, sagging freeway.
The thought of sex is as distant
as the Honda Civic, tan, up ahead;
it weaves from lane to lane.
You should have a little house in Amador
by now -- such as the one to which
your friends invite you sometimes:
microbrews in the hot tub,
off-color jokes under sugar pines.
Stars wheel above, but you
have kind of fallen out of love
with astrology. A little girl
stares from a passing truck.
A baby, not an upbraiding.
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