I cannot see one foot past my front door.
The fog that floated on “little cat feet”
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.
I wander through the mist.
Where are the Foghorns?