Here in Cornwall, my small town
in Vermont, a precinct of deer
and leaves, I like to think
Of my neighbors who are likely
to volunteer for anything.
Coming to our town hall
to set up enough booths.
easily taken down.
I like to think of them
as little puppet theaters,
cabanas for changing
our government every
two and four years.
Our own version of voting
if you lived here and were standing
in the booth next me. trying
to decide who would make a good
watcher of fence posts, counter
of coal, even a next best president,
it wouldn’t surprise you to hear one of us
asking, from booth to booth,
Charlie, who are you voting for?
How’s your good wife?
Did you get your deer?
Questions, I like to think
whomever it is next to you answers.
Privacy, a luxury, native and flat-
lander alike, we give up, for the beauty
of stepping outside in the coming
snow. Leaving tracks with our boots
and poles, the skis on our snowmachines.
The privilege of feeling the plow
in the middle of the night shaking
the house. Like votes from the heavy
branches. Falling. Making a country again.
— Gary Margolis
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