Some mornings we take fog
too seriously, like a school bus
strobing its route more slowly
than by rote, more the pace of
a straight man than class clown.
There is danger in it, we say,
dismissing any chance of mockery.
We can’t see the humor,
the oil of black walnut husks
greasing the walk, or a squirrel’s
slapstick of acorn profligacy.
It’s just not normal, we say,
unable to see the gray horse
grazing its close-cropped pasture,
less expecting to be sated than
grateful there is no gate in sight.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 22, Issue 3.
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