Fundraising in the Red Light District

A tiny figure loaded down
with an oxygen backpack,
translucent tubing backlit
by harsh alley lighting.
she emerged into this raucous backyard,
this rally for a new president,
slightly stooped, quietly.
We stopped talking and turned
to look at her.
She broke the silence,
“I am dying, but I plan to live until
I can cast my vote in November.”
A lanky youth in an arm sling
led her to a suitable chair,
the one which did not wobble too much,
where she wrote a check,
and rested from her exertions.
Then she got up, strolled, slightly
bent over, the translucent oxygen
tubing lit from behind by
the harsh alley lighting
and just as she was disappearing
into the alley, she waved,
calling out, “I’ll be there in November,
and then I can die.”