Thoughts While Shopping

Two friends are having a rhombus
the edges have yet to be seen
or perceived beneath bellyfat;
she's given up chocolate, caffeine,

and traded all jostle for docile
at the first sight of ultrasound pics;
she fears her stomach colossal
and craves dill pickles and lemonade mix

but she can't get 'em herself; he has
to bring it, awoken out of cold slumber
and he lumbers downstairs to the kitchen,
his dreams disturbed and nighttime encumbered

while we all silently wonder about the photos,
about the kid's future appendages and hair --
noting the ultrasound shows neither
and wonder whether it's fair

or even whether l'il rhombie is his?
I mean, our friend's so paunchy, the fetus
geometric. Should he get a DNA test,
ask for her full sexual treatise . . .

and as we buy baby blue clothing
with big eyes and Japanese bunnies
we picture the oblique-angled gigolo
and whether our friend'll pay that support money.