“Hi, those of us in orange vest are volunteers with the clinic

Would you like us to walk with you through the protesters?”

“Well, I guess, but we aren’t like these other girls

We want this baby but I have breast cancer

We need to do this for our three other kids

Else they grow up without a momma”

It ought to matter

but it makes no real difference

To the sidewalk counselors, prayers, and preachers

they counsel, pray and preach

at a woman, rosary clutched, family picture pocketed

hoping her unborn, baptized, soon to be dead child will be waiting for her in her hopefully ever-after.

The sidewalk, buckled and uprooted,

“Do watch your step folks”

Say anything to drown out “Your baby is alive and has fingers and toes”

“There are hundreds of families who want to adopt your baby!”

“As men of God we are called to protect our families”

“Be a real man! Don’t be a wimp!”

I’ve known this woman for six minutes and I want to punch these people in the throat

Papa, friend, companion, husband hugs, gives a little kiss

“It’ll be OK, Juanita, they just don’t know. And they ain’t never gonna”

Bob and weave, sidestep and promenade

We get around the last few prayers and counselors at the clinic property line

“Most of these folks won’t be here when you get out”

“Yeah?

Neither will my baby”

I never expected that