Ironic Fog

IRONIC FOG


Sky at 12:47 AM,
full moonlight
diffused by fog,
ether through cotton,
like overcast
winter dusk.

Objects emerge –-
yellow leaves
from the final maple,
haloed by porch light;
pine lattice shuffles her deck of cards,
all diamonds;
chimneys like mastheads
roam the fog.

A fire alarm
sounds;
two alarms
assault the night.

Strange how this ironic fog
could ignite a single spark,
much less
a blaze.

Suddenly,
a crow caws
its way
across the yard.

Cars, like waves,
slosh dirty foam
against the curb.


Alan Britt

Posted over on Strange Road