When the on-call doctor calls 9-1-1              and reports a baby at risk, I knowyou have to lights-and-sirens to my address,              face me in my t-shirt and pajama pants,and ask, Where’s your baby? And when I point              to my belly, I know you still have tocheck, even in the washing machine, a hiding              place I hope has never turned upa missing anyone. I can tell you guys spike              beach volleyballs on weekends, crashin girls’ apartments when you’re too loaded              even to walk home along the esplanade.I bet the two of you mostly use condoms,              even in your trucks parked just beyondthe piers with their rainbows of light strings.              I explain I’ve never met this doctorwho must have misunderstood when I tried              to tell her I might not have the baby.There, in my living room, both of you, all              suntanned and sidearmed, somehow sayeasily—Ma’am, that’s not the same No, it’s not              Not at all—back and forth to each otheras if passing a box of something, maybe              seawater, without spilling a single drop.