LITTLE AND ORANGE

BY PHILLIP LUNA IV

The cuffs they clink, they clang and clatter
Then sibilance and static of intercom chatter
Like granular notes of some awful score
No rhythm or melody; a torturous matter

The hum of lights is hard to ignore
The hollers of men a stentorian roar
Their blustery bellows, unyielding at best
A hiss and crash of hydraulic cell door

This assault of my senses will not rest
Unless I retreat from this sanity test
But where are my little, orange earplugs?
Oh, where are my little, orange earplugs?

Whose whispers I wish would wander near
That a quiet break could grace my ear
My wish to have a hush from sound
To find this thing I think, so dear

These hermetic seals must be around
A return to sanity if they're found
Such a discord of notes, please, no encore
Its' pollution of chords I cannot ignore

And there I In the corner of my drawer
A beacon of orange and my spirit does soar
For there are my little, orange earplugs
I have found my little, orange earplugs | PL

PHILLIP LUNA IV IS FROM THE BAY AREA; ANTIOCH IS OF HISPANIC AND WHITE HERITAGE. WRITING IS PART OF HIS JOB AS EDITOR OF “THE ECHO,” EASTERN OREGON CORRECTIONAL INSTITUTION’S NEWSLETTER, BUT HE’S ALSO FOUND IT’S SOMETHING HE ENJOYS RECREATIONALLY.