Eustasy

At 90 most of her is thinning,
her mind a sheet of paper
with perforations. Yesterday
she asked five times what year
was it exactly? when she bought
the car that she still drives and
did that year begin with a 19?
When the voting signs pop up
in the yards she begins the laying-
out of clothes. A high heel is
required. This morning I found
her bent over the kitchen table
humming with her Emery board
and Mother of Pearl polish.
The oily headed man with his field
of burning crosses set deep in his
breast pocket, a bonfire boutonniere,
is back again. His mason jar of
pennies pushed too close behind
her as she inchmeal dresses.
Guess again gal, he barks, guess again.
Promising if she guesses right this
time even her great grandmother’s
vote will finally count.   For sure!
Her red gloves with pearl clasps
enter the tiny community center.
A poll worker stands, Good Morning,
young lady. His hand reaching for her
laminated cards. Before surrendering
them she sets her back, recites
by heart: address, phone and driver’s-
license numbers, her breath borrowed
from a Paul Laurence Dunbar poem
taught to her in the fifth grade inside
that buzzing hive of a one-room school.
In the voting booth she lip-synchs her
choice then pulls the lever holding it
down way too long. The oily man’s
head bobbles to her feet.