’Twas the night before midterms, when all through the state,
Not a pundit was stirring; the hour was late.
The ballots were stacked at the courthouse with care,
In hopes that the voters soon would be there.
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of school lunches danced in their heads;
And Ma with the pay stubs, and I with the bills,
Had just tallied the premiums, tariffs, and pills,
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my chair to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the yard signs that stood in a row
Gave a luster of midday to objects below,
When what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a creaking old hay wagon, eight crows to steer,
With a grizzled old raven, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it wasn’t St. Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:
“Now, Wages! now, Unions! now, Pensions and Medicare!
On, Schoolhouse! on, Clinic! on, Ballot and Fair Share!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now caw away! caw away! caw away all!”
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,
So up to the housetop the murder they flew,
With a wagon of ballots, and Silas Corvin too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The scraping and scratching of talon, not hoof.
As I drew in my head and was turning around,
Down the chimney came Silas with one gruff bound.
He was dressed all in feathers, from his head to his foot,
And his press cap was tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of receipts he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a newsman just opening his pack.
His eyes, how they stared! His crest, how it bristled!
His beak like a pencil, sharpened and whittled.
The stump of a pen he held tight in his beak,
And he’d ink on his feathers from writing all week.
He had a lean face and a gaunt little belly
From living on coffee and gas-station deli.
He was scruffy and stern, a right ornery old bird,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of what I’d heard.
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And he stuffed all the mailboxes, then turned with a jerk.
There was Medicaid mended, the clinic kept near,
And a wage that would cover the rent for the year;
There were unions with backbone and pensions kept whole,
And a full library shelf with no censor’s patrol.
Then out from his sack he dumped the old coal:
The tariffs, the price hikes, the gutted payroll,
The premiums climbing, the clinic doors shut,
The billionaire tax break, the Medicaid cut.
He bagged it up tight for the folks who had sent it,
With a note: “Here’s your record. Go on and defend it.”
But a promise in pen doesn’t pass by itself;
Leave it lying there, friend, and it rots on the shelf.
And laying a wing on the bridge of his beak,
And giving a nod, he went up through the reek.
He sprang to his wagon, to his crows gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight:
“Polls open at seven. Go vote. And good night.”
Twelve counties, every day, no appointment necessary. — Silas Corvin.
