Sunday Afternoon on a
Highway in New Jersey
"It's really sad when you can't get laid and you're a girl," I said to my friends on the way to the abortion clinic.

They didn't hear me though, because they were vogueing in the backseat.

"Turn it up Cheryl baby," said the one who was pregnant.

Trucking down the highway with the windows open, the radio full blast in the late 1980s.

Young. Wild. Crazy.

One of them began to spray Debbie Gibson's Electric Youth perfume.

I was sure that the condoms I had carried in my purse for months had fermented. They say they last a few years, but I didn't believe it.

"Sometimes I feel like it's just not worth it anymore," I added, flicking the condoms out the window. They didn't notice.

The other girl took out a monster-sized can of hair spray. I was now surrounded.

"I'm glad school's finally over," said the Electric Youth girl whose period was two weeks late but she was not yet worried.

I gripped the steering wheel harder. With my right hand I reached into my purse and grabbed my lighter, played with it a bit, adjusted the flame.

"You know when a bunch of guys get together, they're like going out for pizza. We're going to the abortion clinic," said one of them.

Her hair did not move in the wind.

--- Cheryl B.
From Reactions5 --- New Poetry
Clare Pollard, Editor
Pen & Ink Press,
University of East Anglia
Norwich, Norfolk NR4 7TL
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