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I remember the fogs of my childhood. How 
they pooled over the field at the end
of the suburb, hung heavy over the untamed
grass, hiding the dewy sinewy stalks. It
stayed there, quietly, silently inviting
us to play. We did, a collection of boys
donning baseball caps to explore that gray
expanse. I could hear the mice scurry by
as I played land locked marco polo
with fog bound friends. Even when
I couldn’t see my own hand in front 
of my face, I could always look up 
and see the early morning sky colored in
with pink and orange crayons. We’d stay
there until the sun and the fog slowly
dissipated. 

These days I’ve left suburbs far behind
opting for alleys over cul-de-sacs and 
ditching the ball caps for a nine to five. I’ve
spent my early mornings walking, pacing 
between buildings, between floor and ceiling
of concrete and fog. It hangs overhead like 
a low ceiling weighing down on my shoulders
and slowly collapsing my spine. It is rich
and claustrophobic with the smell of car
exhaust and cigarettes hovering in the air.
It’s hard to catch my breath, let alone call
out to long lost friends. I stay silent,
knowing I will get no reply, but I still 
know that the sun will rise and the fog
will slowly disappear. I’ll see my friends
again, clear as day. 

Joseph Warner

The Fog Rolls In