Parking lot civics

Last night, I dreamed of the old man

who used to rest his hand on my head

while talking with dad in the parking lot after church.

He lived in an old clapboard farmhouse

where gravel turned to blacktop

and subdivisions grew among the corn.

Rooted in old settler stock,

he ran for state legislature every two years

and every two years he lost.

He did not question the will of the people

and if his wife did not complain

he would run again.

Dad said he was a good man

that elections had winners and losers

and the best man doesn’t always win.

This morning, I remember an old man

who ran office, again and again and lost

and feel honored he rested his hand on my head.

9-11-22