I cannot see one foot past my
front door.
The fog that floated on “little
cat feet”
swamps me.
Wet like sweat, not cooling,
but chilling.
Have I died?
Did I die a “Noir”
death?
Have I walked onto a Hollywood
set?
A 1947 Frisco waterfront?
Where Foghorns sound the way.
Am I lost?
Passion is the poet’s eye.
The gray fog ignites grey
matter.
Emotions overwhelm.
I wander through the mist.
Where are the Foghorns?
©TPuma/MMXXII
