James Croal Jackson
Another rainy voting day– this time,
I crossed Main Street without looking.
I know traffic patterns enough
to know around noon there’s no one
out here, and so I walked into
the alley by Tina’s, the anti-social
route past people’s fenced backyards.
I met a hanging skeleton and
a wooden turkey two houses apart,
and when I walked downhill to
get to Woolsair a man in a Tahoe
pointed to the school’s side door.
In other years, there are people
lurking who want to tell me how
to vote, but this time, no signs,
nothing– just an empty gym, three
old men and my neighbor, Nolan,
who I didn’t know volunteered
here, told me there have been
just a few today, and thus as I
tapped my choices saying no
to oligarchical, corporate forces
as best I could, I temporarily
felt the weight of my fingers
multiply, that my choices would
count as thousandths not
millionths on the grand tv ticker
tonight– no. I know enough
to know that if it’s only me,
my vote will never matter.