Posts Tagged ‘fog



The fog crept in on little cat feet.
It circled the house once twice thrice.
It curled itself around the nice cool base of the toilet.
It considered the cars, the ships, the men with broad shoulders, the corn-fed daughters of the soil and the many other things it had consumed and taken as part of itself.
The fog rejoiced in its vocation, delicately licked a paw, flicked a whisker and went to sleep.


The Morning After The Morning After The Migraine

And I’m still feeling a little stoned.
I didn’t enjoy this a quarter century ago when it involved a bong,
Fried frozen pizza, and an exterminator;
I’m liking it even less now.
It’s not pot this time; it’s Promethazine and I have a prescription.
As long as you have a prescription it’s fine.
Ha! Isn’t that what they always say?
It’s an anti-nausea drug but now I’m wondering
If throwing up might have been better.
Promethazine takes away most of the urge but the pain stays.
And you’re foggy for two days after.
Vomiting hurts like hell at the time but the pain, the tension and the fog leave.
It’s like your whole system gets flushed along with the toilet.
You wake up the next morning feeling like I did in Mojave.
The air was clear; my head was clear.
There were no jobs but there was no pain.
There were no plants and I could breathe.



It always felt like summer vacation.
Judy Collins sang “Cook With Honey”.
We ate blackberry pie with chopsticks,
Holding our mouths close to our Blue Willow plates.
Hours in the Art Museum and library.
The sharp, salty taste of an old deli.
Watching “Fiddler On The Roof”.
Just for fun, researching the Bubonic Plague.
A Greyhound trip to Denver.
Holiday laughter at the kids’ table.
Falling asleep in her black recliner
With a book and the Sunday paper
On my face and on the floor.
Bob Marley crooning.
Pasta water bubbling.
Tomatoes, onions, garlic simmering,
Veiling the kitchen windows with fog.

A frosty Monday morning.
She’s steamed up the kitchen cooking oatmeal.
Her breathing is harsh and wheezing
When she carries the bowls and brown sugar in to the table.
Her step is steady but a little slower
At least here in the apartment.
She doesn’t seem any more stooped.
She catches me looking.
I think I see a challenge in her eyes.
I quickly look away.
She sits down, straightens, and almost smiles.
We quietly spoon up our oatmeal.
A dog wuffs as it walks up the back stairs.
Anna asks her the big questions she’s brought:
What’s your most valued piece of technology?
What events do you fear?
What do you want most?
I listen for a minute then I lean back
And look at our history hung all over the walls.
Grandma’s children and her children’s children
And the others.
She babysat till she was seventy-five.
After we hug her “goodbye”,
She goes toward the recliner.
(I like to imagine that- like I did-
She’ll be “catching a snooze”.)
“The back porch used to be my office.
That’s where I kept my dress-up clothes,
My colored paper, and my chalk.
No one else was allowed to touch it.”
“You told me that already.
You’re really starting to repeat yourself.”
By the shores of Gitchee Gumee.
St. Patrick’s where they say a Spanish Mass.
Playing “The Minister’s Cat” till midnight.
Eating pink grapefruit with a spoon.
We’re miles away
But now
The fog from her oatmeal
Makes it hard for me to see.