Tuesday, February 8, 2022



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?