I’ll have no descendants. My line ends up in me.
I’ll add no other branches to my family tree.
Through hormone-driven years of youth, I kept myself intact.
Although I felt the urges, I never did the act.
Though I was fond of kissing, at further acts, I balked.
When I engaged in intercourse, I fear I merely talked.
I kept my panty hose in place—never unzipped my zipper.
I’d be no antecedent to any future nipper.
In the many years since then, I’ve had a love or two,
but as to procreation? My friends’ kids had to do.
I’m not averse to passion. In fact, I am no saint,
but when it comes to motherhood? Sorry, folks. I ain’t!!
(This poem is only partially autobiographical. I love kids and always thought I’d have a few, but the time or the potential father was never quite right, and when the right one came along, he’d already had ten kids, so it seems in this life, at least, I am the end of the line.)