Breathing Fog

Breathing Fog

In your head Otis Redding sings,
smokey blues that match the fog,
slow rolling, memory fed, each one
as vague as your memory, uncertain
songs.

Even here, in your familiar places,
everything feels strange,
each day a new battle, the old ones
suddenly not enough. You breathe the fog in.
It is sufficient. No more.

But then,
these days,
that is all you ask.

About this poem

Strange times. And what lesson have I learned from my past strange times?

We come through them. And there such a thing as enough…. for a time.

Tom

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