I love the fog. It’s not 100 degrees.
It’s not Mary sobbing on the phone or powder-
white mildew killing the rose. My father
lost inside it keeps pretending he’s dead
just so he can get a little peace.
It’s not made of fire or afraid of fire
like me, it has nothing to do with smoke.
There’s never any ash, anything to sift through.
You just put your hand on the yellow rail
and the steps seem to move themselves.
It doesn’t have a job to do.
It’s morning all afternoon.
It loves the music but would be
just as happy listening to the game.
Still, I don’t know what frightens me.
It doesn’t blame anyone.
You’ll never see tears on its cheeks.
It’ll never put up a fight.
I love how the fog lies down in the air,
how it can only get so far from the sea.