Did I not stay up all night
with you, Palm Beach Can-
vassing Board? Did my
eyes not turn dark and
puffy? Did we not scrutinize
each pregnant and hanging
chad together, and puzzle over
each ballot as if democracy’s
future depended on it? And
just as we were drowsing off,
eyes half-shut, did not Walt
Whitman arrive to place his
hand around our waists, while
down at the end of the count-
ing table we heard the distant
laugh of Medgar Evers. And in
the dawn’s early light, we
smiled, and reached for
another stack of ballots.
In the third week of the presidential election
November 30, 2000
