Too misty, too white.
Fog changes pelicans
Into prows of ships.
Slow, too slow to
Ignite red lights,
Switch gates down.
Listening, windows up...
No engines, no
Crackling radio.
Easy seagulls perch
Ramshackle wharves,
Eyeing pelicans
Moving pterodactyl-like
In time, in space
Over smooth water
Not jumped by mullet
Or Reds.
White receding, revealing
No outriggers on far
Horizon bend to
Boudreaux Canal.
A red and white cork
Zig-zags, t.v. blasts
A decongestant ad.
Fog chimneys into the
Air.
The mirror clears.
elysabeth faslund
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/fog-6/
