I go to the local mortuary to vote. Beardsley’s
is a white two story colonial with a lush lawn.
Been by many times but never inside. In the foyer
a man that looks like me, white hair and beard,
points to the viewing room, a red, white, and blue
voting sign on the door. Inside a woman in her seventies
that looks like my sister gives me a ballot and I step
inside a cardboard voting booth that appears to be
a patriotic casket on end. I’m feeling light-headed;
embalming fluid? My blurred choice between
Cicero and Eugene Debs, is Eleanor Roosevelt.
I vote other officials and rule revisions for my
grandchildren, as my future is pretty well played out.
Economy, democracy, me; how long? My sister asks
if I’m all right, No, I say, and give her my ballot.
I talk to my brother about funeral services.
He shows me a wake-room where thirty people
can celebrate my life. About the right number I say
and take his card. I step around dog poop on the lawn
and think all voting should be done at funeral homes
with dogs marauding around as making big life
choices should consider mortality and all that shit.
(aka Lloyd Hill) is an Open Mike member of the Drunk Poet’s Society, winner of City Beat Fiction 101, and winner of the Musings poetry contest. His work appears in three San Diego Community College literary anthologies, and he’s an Actor in Acting Out Theater.