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