TO THE ABORTION | Joan Pond

to the abortion
Pam and I sat in front, clutching cups of coffee.
Steam fogged the glass
as I followed Bryant’s Pass
and we crossed the double kerthump of track,
headed toward Bridgeport.
We stopped at Dunkin’ Donuts
and saw the dude in the cowboy hat and string tie.
The restaurant, with its lights and white walls
was sterile as a Hopper.
And the man in the hat sat facing the street,
balancing his face in his hands,
staring into the night.
I turned at the light and followed the signs.
Two blocks to Stillman Medical.
One Block to Stillman.
Take a right at Stillman.
Strange, for a clinic to advertise
as an amusement park.
It was though we were driving
to South of the Border.

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