Okay, that's mean to say,
but I'm waiting for her,
and she's sleeping still,
or she's showering,
going on now for over an hour.

It's tough not knowing
if you're a new dad or not.

She admits she's putting it off.

She says she maybe had her period.
She can't be sure,
but when she said she did,
she says, she really didn't.
She just thought she did.

I feel an empty space
in my stomach, waiting here.
The anxiety's like eating
a giant balloon.

She leaves to buy the test.

As she's walking, she says,
she crosses the street,
and now there's five mothers
with five baby carriages
obstructing her path.

This, she says, is too much.
Who'd believe this?

Oh that, I say. That's S.M.o.o.P.
S.M.o.o.P.? she says.
Stroller Mothers out on Patrol.

She makes it home.

After she does her thing,
I time the test.
It's good at two minutes,
but I count longer.
I think, Why not?
What's twenty more seconds?

Now I want to tell everyone,
we don't have a fetus.
I hold it in during class,
but my good mood peeks through,
and after class,
when I stop to get candy,
I press D8 for a Butterfinger
and the vending machine gives me two.

Fetuses are hard on everyone.