Jeff Burt 

Booth

 

I watched a lonely woman go to vote, elderly. 

Rain had made the path a slick to fell

the innocent and old, and lips pursed tight

to keep her opinion to herself

she struggled, mincing steps and grabbing signs

until warm air gushed from the polling place

and ushered her as if in church,

but this was no place of sanctity for her,

no kneeling sanctuary. Her motivation was to mark,

bent to the weight of a paper ballot,

as if shouldering the responsibility of democracy.

A few circles to fill, a label for her lapel

that she would leave adhered for a week.

She’d been asked to speak, and did.

THE COURTSHIP OF WINDS

© 2015 by William Ray