Primary Runoffs - Casting a Vote

Mack Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Midsummer Primary Runoffs -

Casting a Vote

Well, no, one does not exactly cast a vote -
The petitioner presents his papers,
And the County Mothers pince-nez them
As the countenance of ‘Way Cool Jesus
Beams down upon all from the cinder-block wall
Of the youthatorium, focused on
The holy liturgical percussion-set,
Now sacrally stilled in a Lenten silence.
The beldams rubber-stamp democracy,
And, humbly honored by their Nihil Obstat,
The citizen communes with a party ballot,
Ignoring the glares of disapproval
From one set of partisan poll-watchers  
And ignoring too the approbation
Of another shoal of lapel-flagged bluehairs,
He sits in pontifical dignity
On the folding cathedra of wisdom,
At the cafeteria table of justice,
Rood-screened in occultus by cardboard sheets
(Bearing flags thereon, and symbols arcane),
And blots with The Sacred Pen of Our People
Little squares illuminating holy texts.
He frowns, recalling in indignation
Intrusive ‘phone calls from a candidate:
“Suspendatur,” he thinks, and then moves on,
Blotting, blotting away into history,
“Here, sir, the blotters rule.”  And then The Box:
The Blue Box or the Red; the Red Box or the Blue;
The Ballot, unfolded, face up, must be
Not cast but slid, like a speakeasy tip,
Gently, into The Box, The People’s Box.
Not cast, but slid, carefully, and then
In November one does this again.