Real life, really
We drove home from the funeral at four o'clock
when the sun was so low it rocked us into

a strange/silent/sickening overcastted glow,
I watch my reflection as it remains unchanged

in the side-mirror, sunglasses hide my eyes
and we pause at the fifteenth of fifteen more red lights

when I see her: something immediately clicks
and I sit up straighter, bite my lip for fear

of screaming, say: "look" to my parents
and we all gaze at the old woman with

the cardboard sign that reads: God
loves YOU and YOUR baby, within

seconds I pinpoint the abortion clinic
up the hill, parking garage, tinted

windows. Should I say something?
My mother sighs from the seat behind

me; start to pull the car forward, roll
down the window, yell

freedom
of
choice

drive away.

a/n: written for the February WCC