The card I haven't answered

The card came in the mail

with my name on it,

official and pale,

like I was supposed to feel

important.

I was twenty-two,

stood in line for an hour,

filled in my boxes with a kind of power,

thought my vote would mean something true.

The basement of the school

smelled like old cafeteria,

like floor wax and milk,

and I believed the rule—

believed my mark would change

something, believed the strange

ritual was the same as having a voice.

But this morning,

the reminder card on my counter,

something political made me falter,

made me think:

what did that vote do for me?

Not nothing.

Just something smaller

than I thought.

I could vote again.

Stand in line.

Fill in my boxes.

But this time I'm thinking about

not showing up.

Not out of rage.

Out of the quiet refusal

to pretend

that this ritual

is the same thing

as having

any power at all.

The card sits there.

My name is printed on it.

The checkboxes empty.

I haven't decided

whether I'm brave enough

to admit

that the system

was never built

for people like me

anyway.