The picketers, they line the aisles
with their signs, their chants, their winded rants.
They scream, “Infidels” and “Infanticide”
None of them where the smile
They all wear the face
of grim protest
against an issue they detest.
They stock up references,
Potential situations
The enmity swells.
The people rally around their beliefs
their code.
their way the world should work
“It’s not right!” they cry.
Meanwhile, the policeman
and father of one
is at the hospital with his only son
Who is into baseball. He’s getting pretty good too.
The doctor waits with a calm face
and tells the dad that his son is going blind.
The policeman asks what can be done
The doctor replies, “I’m afraid hope there is none”
the father refuses to believe
He looks it up, and visits
the Clinic at the edge of the city
Where the human body is kept under ice.
He waits with another woman, whose niece has been paralyzed, and finally gets to see the doctor.
“The technology is here,” the doctor sympathizes,
“But we need money to get it approved by the FDA, and that is not likely as we are primarily
government funded.”
The policeman goes back to his son, who is squinting at baseball cards. He looks into his eyes, already blurry with cataracts.
“It’s not right,” he cries.