Regular Poem: We expect commitment from our fog

The cloud
vying for the coveted position of
fog
must be hearty,
must bring salty spring smells,
must be able to withstand severe wind.

We expect
commitment
from our fog
here in Kansas.

If you want to just linger in a ditch on cool mornings
and laze around until noon,
move on out.
We’ll wait

for some cloud
who will bring its own sandbags
and hunker down
to blur all the streetlights
and roll up its sleeves
to endure 50 mph wind.

 

Regular Poem: All quiet

All quiet
and foggy
and trains
and a porch light
and your exhalation
puffing three feet high and then
melting into the fog–
the cloud that has grounded–
and you can see it for a long ways
yet zero miles.

The only sound
is a foggy sound
of far off whistles
that sound as though
they’re coming from the
sky.
But nothing’s in the
sky
not even the clouds.
The clouds are
on your back patio, in
your hammock, around
your porch light.

And the moon
is
nowhere.
But wherever
it is,
it is
supposed to be

full.

And you believe
it–
not because
some almanac claims it
but because
everything
is full.

Full of clouds.
And full of
quiet.