Long ago I joined the cult of womb-weary mid-wives, signed the membership form of that woman walking the sidewalk crack of weariness between her eyes, stood at the end of the line with the discount crowd waiting their turn to pay off ghost children hanging on them, I too walked in the shadow of the the ficus trees at the Italian Hall and the CPUSA storefronts and the dirty palm trees, today I submit my vote for the Tzotzil and Quiche day laborers for president of the association and its 30,000 members, standing together with you speaking softly in the back holding a cup of black coffee in our four hands or in our eight hands, under the vast Western tent of blood-pink weariness in the sunset before the endless infinite universe, there I keep the brochure of their society in my pocket, already paid my dues to the International Brotherhood of Electrical Firefighters and Sanitation Workers, walking that line that goes out the door, across the parking lots in lines of taillights and headlights, dispersing throughout the city to deliver you this ticket. Sign here ___________________________________ .