At 100 N. Jefferson St in Green Bay,
City Hall: the ladies of democracy
all have their backs turned when I walk in
for early voting, attending
to the copy machine, the phones, the trash,
as though it’s an ordinary day
with the office in order.
Finally one of them, my age, with bangs,
takes my driver’s license and quizzes me
about my address and
hands me a ballot and an envelope
and sends me into the hall
where plastic cubicles line the walls.
I use a scratchy ball point pen
to darken the ovals of democracy,
little storm clouds on paper sails
that I tuck into the envelope, and with my DNA
lick it sealed, handing it over to the
lady of democracy who is coming out
of the bathroom, drying her hands on her pants,
saying to me “I’ll take that, hon,”
like a waitress at a Friday night fish fry,
about to go home and crack a beer,
as if the world
will carry on
without her.
Halfway North 