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Poem: Foggy


The fog didn’t come in on little cat feet.
It didn’t rub its back against rain pipes.

No, the fog stomped its way across town,
it was a giant made of cement,
pressing down on plants and trees,
three-story walk-ups, and you.

(I forgot to mention you were in this story,
not as the poet, but as the muse.)

And this humidity, this grey blanket
pushes me face down into the soil,
until drowning in my own inability to swim,
my only sensation is breathlessness.
_____________________________________

I worked 11.5 hours yesterday and I'm feeling a little foggy . . .

Oh, and I should mention.  The cat feet are a Carl Sandburg thing and that whole rubbing on things business is from T.S. Elliot.
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