Foghorns

 

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