Gwen D. Feldman Haaland

Late at night...so quiet, peaceful.
The tropical breeze exhales her moist breath
through the needlepoint screens.
It's almost as if I'm the last person alive.
Just the warm yellow lights in the distance
gaze back at me blinking like
hundreds of night owl eyes.

Dimly, the two-level buildings melt into four
with their reflections on the stained glass lake.
Slivers of orange, yellow and topaz
shimmer along its glassy surface.

A poised palm silhouettes
the now cool Floridian sky.
The endless lull of crickets
and the hum of some distant motor
reinforce the cool calm collection
of invisible sunburned sleepers
tucked away safely, self-contained in their
identical air-conditioned white cell units.

Recharging like batteries, they are recuperating
for their daily ritual; waiting for their
reoccurring rendezvous on puffs of
flourescent white powder...
to worship their orange-lemon god
and bask in the glory of their sacrifice.

Turtle and bird smells drift ashore.
A small splash shatters the stained glass.
The fish is again swallowed as the cracks
ripple and curiously mend themselves
in precision.