The moment of conception.
My homosexual father penetrating his feminist wife,
no explanations or fundamentals discussed.
Why was I not asked?
What did I inherit from this exchange?
This was their second future. Aggressively so.
She quietly regretted, he never commented.
There may have been a picnic earlier that day,
the fountain of birth flowing approximately
Sunday, April 30, 1967, in the evening hours.
How much work was it? For him, especially, I ask.
This existential quagmire of existence
seeded by a barely hard cock I saw only once.