October 2017 Poem
Foggy Morning on 421
The fog is eating the mountains.
A thick white cloud covers pine trees,
rock faces, and wooden fences.
Then the road disappears,
with its helpful lines and warning signs.
I follow the lights of the car in front of me.
We’re part of an unwitting convoy,
inching down a mountain road
in zero visibility.
A runaway truck could hit us from behind
and send us careening off the mountain
or spinning like billiard balls.
This is what it’s like to grow old,
creeping along slowly,
losing your vision, memory, and friends,
no familiar landmarks to guide you,
the suspense building as you
wait for a sudden exit.