They measure each other’s bellies
they guess their months –
the one that comes out of the toilet
tomorrow enters the ninth
the food is delicious
but they restrain
they’d light a cigarette
but their husbands nag
three chairs in three corners –
wherever they sit they’re in a waiting room
three states of bliss
with a vomiting urge
(they also vomited last year – from tequila and beer)
the first one would like a girl
the second one her first to be a boy
the third one is about to explode
“whatever it is – if only it’s fast”
they deceit themselves that they’re successful
businesswomen
whose careers will end by
ironing diapers
but they will really only
be pregnant for a while
and only then they’ll become proven
successful women