Mister Fog

People complain about fog

when it’s mist, which is different:

fog rises from rivers and lakes,

mist descends from above,

low-lying clouds that forgot how to rain

dropping their sad, sagging bellies

in the middle of the highway,

creating a filthy spray of traffic splash,

muddying headlights, tiny drops

like needle points on windshields,

wipers squeaking against dry glass

on the return sweep.

Mist follows me like a bad reputation,

but fog wraps itself around me,

whispering hush,

being hush,

allowing me to hear myself,

all of the static and noise of the world

sequestered in a waiting room by the river,

the thick, white blanket looking more like a cloud

than the clouds I drive through.

I prefer ascension.