-progressive waits-

the tendons of the muscle tighten,

snap to place straight as a plumb-line.

It's a fragile chalk.

earlier in the month I voted by mail-in ballot.

the postoffice is close to the apartment

but not so close for a leisurely walk.

there’s a steep hill to climb, the crazy

virus is dancing in the air clinging to droplets

of anything worth the definition of droplet.

I own more than one mask.

one hangs on a doorknob.

one hangs on the gearshift lever.

one drapes across "The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson".

I wrap another around my ears, press

the nose-fitting to cling and drive to the postoffice.

once inside I hand my ballot to the woman, exhausted

behind the counter who drops it into a large,

canvas container standing by her side, ballot-filled.

when I arrive back home I de-mask,

brew a pot and check my online standing.

one friend has a birthday.

another has lost something somewhere near

the supermarket on the boulevard.

the people take notice.

three friends tapped to "like" my latest poem.

fifty six others didn't responded.

the tendons of the muscle tighten.

returns slowly drip into consciousness

as a form of torture drips upon a forehead in a darkening room,

agonizing the badly flawed process I freely choose to participate in.

 

November 3, 2020