Operation Rescue

1991, I was 15.  
And on the corner of 12^th and Locust,
Mrs. Gee gently told me 
to stop making eye contact with drivers
at the stop sign.
 
I was there with pamphlets for passers-by.
I was there to share my story:
my son was safe somewhere.  
 
In the middle of Center City, Philly, 
a tiny garden is protected by an iron gate. 
It wasn’t my job to block it. 
From the outskirts, 
I watched the choreography at the entryway.  
Fathers and nuns and young adults prayed rosaries, 
beseeched Mary to ask her Son to make abortion illegal again.
Thus clinic visits were prevented
until the police arrived by bus, zip-tied the congregation, 
and took them all away.
 
It was quiet in ‘94 when I took an elevator 
from a Miami parking garage to my appointment. 
No protestors were staked-out outside offering other choices
or threatening hell with horrifying signs,
no need to be escorted inside.
 
When it was done, 
that tiny spirit and I fell out the 8^th floor window 
like shadows from the silent sky.
 
 
The Beatnik Cowboy, June 2021