The sickly yellow of mercury vapor street light
reflects a clouded sky;
blotting out a billion stars nestled in rich inky black.
A siren wail,
the obnoxious rude honk of a car,
replaces owl song accompanied by an orchestra of frogs and insects.
No open window with cool fresh air;
rather, a room closed
against the sultry smell of sour milk,
bathed in the white noise of air conditioning.
Red Lake,
you are far away.
Really good imagery. To me, this poem paints a picture of a person stuck in a (hotel) room in some smelly, impersonal city who can’t sleep without the white noise sounds and smells of home. Kind of sad…well done, Russ
LikeLiked by 1 person
I fully understand. May you find some peace.
Sent from my iPhone
>
LikeLike
I’ve been there, Russ. Give me the sound of the woods any day. For so many years, working with the tribal colleges, I was sent to DC for Congressional visits, meeting with this or that agency, or American Indian Higher Education Consortium events. I was always glad to go in a way, but, at the same time, dreaded the loss of the real world. This is truly a poem I relate to, and it is so well done!
LikeLike