Election Day
For Hannah

We voted extra hard, like a hammerfall,
like a tackle instead of a tag.
Then wanting to do more
we went door to door,
down root-heaved sidewalks,
across shallow maple leaf seas,
smiling ambassadors for the Great Cause.
The day was warm and clear
and we took that as a sign,
as food and drink, as medicine,
as it was.  We walked
back into our lost country, still so familiar,
rapping our knuckles on painted doors,
aluminum storms, dog-scratched
oak doors with dirty brass knobs, doors
that locked in silence, or weeping,
stubborn doors, or those
that opened unexpectedly at the last moment.
I saw five deer in a garden
and asked them if they’d had a chance to vote.
They looked undecided.
They weren’t afraid of us—after all,
an old lady and a young one, clearly labeled,
were hardly a reason
to leave behind the sweetness of the last coreopsis.
We were armed with irrefutable facts
that could never overrule
a single feeling,
and we left a trail of literature behind us,
a scent that any yellow dog
could follow, wagging.