Weeks after the garage filled up,
my wife became pregnant. It was the summer
for country roads, strawberry picking,
ice cream on cones. We wore sneakers,
the laces knotted twice, drank ginger ale.

She was wary of children, often dreaming
of a girl, pigtails caught in the wind,
and the boy holding her hand.
We agreed on how we preferred
to have dogs, perhaps a parrot or two.

In the hotel room, I caught her fondling
my Belgian man at work. She insisted
the red triangle concept was attractive.
She had a hard time keeping her eyes off
the spade deeply penetrating the dark mound.

That night we had too much to drink. In bed,
we explored detour after detour: slippery
when wet, falling rocks, go slow on curves.
The 140 limit we passed on the highway
flew from our mind, like birth control.

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Arlene Ang is the author of four poetry collections including Bundles of Letters Including A, V and Epsilon (Texture, 2008). She is staff editor at The Pedestal Magazine and Press 1, and blogs at event museum. She lives in Spinea, Italy.