Poem Happened Across....

CONDOM by John Popielaski

At thirty-two we aren't looking
to commit ourselves to bearing a child.
The very thought of her conceiving
sometimes qualifies the pleasure
of our making love without one.
So a condom almost always comes
along with us to bed, to bath,
to the point at which it becomes
a kind of appendage, like a sheath
that has meshed with my penis
after years of intimate relations.
Even my desire to make love to her
is now attended by the urge to slip
a lubricated condom on, to feel
protected from the miracle of birth.