Night of the Pump Jacks
Sandi Stromberg
October 1, 2022
The lamppost casts shadows through swaying trees.
My eyes won’t close in this unfamiliar room.
Dark dressers, bedside tables, a trunk or two,
like a movie scene from an Egyptian tomb.
My ears won’t close in this unfamiliar room,
where metal scrapes and clunks, reverberates,
like echoes in a pillaged Egyptian tomb.
I curl under covers afraid of whom I do not know.
Metal scrapes metal with a screaming screech.
Is it the vengeful cry of an unchained spirit?
I burrow to hide from whom I do not know,
alone in this eerie, secluded room.
Is it the vengeful cry of an unchained spirit?
I shiver checking windows—closed and locked.
Alone in this eerie, secluded room.
The crank and clank continue their grating sound.
Windows closed and firmly locked, I shiver.
No one will know to come if a spirit enters.
The crank and clank resound, resound, resound.
Has the Mummy risen to take its due?
No one will come if a spirit enters
this room of dark dressers, a trunk or two.
Has the Mummy risen to take its due
as the lamppost casts shadows through swaying trees?
Sandi Stromberg led a nomadic life until she arrived in Houston, Texas, where putting down roots in gumbo earth has been challenging and rewarding. Her poetry has been nominated three times for a Pushcart and twice for Best of the Net. Recent publications include Panoply: The Literary Zine, The Ekphrastic Review, MockingHeart Review, San Pedro River Review, and the Texas Poetry Assignment.
