the hazy orange, red, and brown dusk sky
looks sullen from a dull ennui. It seems
like it’s languorously about to die.
With half-closed lids, it feels polluted dreams.

The freeway at its feet is full, and up
waft fumes: a foul incense. The human stress
of rush hour doesn’t faze the old, corrupt,
and failing sky. It drops its faded dress.

None, nothing will disturb its ugly death.
It isn’t rosy like it was at dawn,
or blue like when noon’s bright light filled its breadth,
height, and depth. Apathetically, it’s drawn
the long pall, night, and now, below glow stars
like candle flames that flicker from dark jars.

HERB WAHLSTEEN earned a B.A. in English from CA. St. U., Fullerton, and an M. A. in English from Columbia U. He then worked many years as a middle and high school teacher in New York City Public Schools. He was a finalist in the Yale Series of Younger Poets contest (1989, Adam and Eve in the 20th Century, James Merrill, judge), placed 3rd in the Writer’s Digest 77th Annual Writing Competition: Rhyming Category.