The Parking Lot Was Half-Full

I got a text this morning asking

if I was registered. I am. I've been

registered for years.

But I drove past a church with a hand-lettered sign

taped to the glass door and idled at the curb.

Six cars in the lot.

POLLING PLACE in blue marker.

The first time I didn't go

was not the first time I was eligible.

I'd voted before. I knew where to go.

I just decided not to that year

and told myself what people tell themselves—

both sides, no difference, one vote,

the clean arithmetic of staying home.

I know what year it was.

I know what came after.

Six cars in the lot.

I put the car in drive.

I've never said out loud

that I'm still paying for that.