A day mislaid,
its hours misplayed,
its minutes lost
at such a cost.
 
Where do they go?
Above? Below?
We do not know,
yet miss them so.
 
 
When one spends 15 hours working at the polls, poetry is lost, even the pretense at poetry is lost. Doggerel hangs around for a while, though. This is a response to Miz Quickly’s Day Three challenge.