The booths are closed, nothing more to do.
O, give me back the promise of Tuesday,
they wail, each in a huge room where chairs
fold and stack themselves against the walls,
windows sleep under thin sheets of dust.
They watch a lop-sided moon slink
to the shivering lake, hear spouses moan
in sleep like rusty chains, remember hands
that gripped their joints until they ached
like lonely hearts. They stand invisible
at highway exits, waving their placards,
white-flag spooks flapping in wind, mouths
miming the empty circle, Vote, vote, vote.
This article appears in Nov 8-14, 2006.
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