Summer Igloos Poem by Doug Stewart

West of Elkhorn there is a cluster of white, concrete
Domes that once, back when the land was almost virginal
With roads, this was a motel. A place of rest, a place of trysts,
A place of fantasies, a place to hide, a lodge for broken suitcases.

It has no name now, and not much is left but the haze of spent dreams.
Car park lane, dust blown and empty, willows weeping overhead.
The pealed wood of broken doors, stale tatters of window shades,
And those smooth, white domes of concrete, the shelters.

Motel is a composite of motor and hotel, of road and
Home, and as common as they are today, they were
Oases in the black and white past, a respite from travel, and if you
Listen in the dark, you will hear faint echoes of depression era voices.