Tom and Alicia

She rode on his bike’s handlebars—
They’re as steady as a dangling limb;
Side-to-side she swayed, like a boat on choppy waters,
Moving to an unknown rhythm.

She screamed…

Barely could she distinguish her surroundings;
All she saw was the colours,
Like being inside an abstract painting—
An anachronism in the world of its creator.

There was a chill in the air;
Feeling her shivering, the boy said to his girlfriend,
“Hold on, baby, we’re almost there.”

They were going to a clinic;
Alicia had gashed her leg on the concrete,
And Tom—with his own hoodie—fashioned a tourniquet,
Hoping it’d provide some semblance of relief.

By not wearing his hoodie,
Tom himself could’ve gotten sick—
But to him, continuing to wear it would’ve been a far greater risk.

When they finally arrived,
Tom held the bike upright,
And put Alicia’s arm around his neck;
Gently he picked her up, carried her inside,
His face wrought with fright,
As they approached the front desk—

“M’am, my girlfriend hurt herself—
Please—PLEASE HELP!”

The receptionist called the physician,
And they were told he’d be with them shortly—

Sitting her on his lap, he held her hand,
Rocking her comfortingly,
At which time she said, “Can I ask you a question?”
“Of course,” replied he;
“You think you’ll have better transportation…
When I’m pregnant with and set to deliver our baby?”

“I hope so!” he laughed. “I’m going to try.”

—Kevin B. Waring