Fog, Yet Another Point Of View
Fog, Yet Another Point Of View
Near Fisherman’s Wharf, quite late at night
Tendrils of music and mist mix together
Slim young ladies and slender young men
Street musicians, with grand aspirations
Dressed a bit tattered, on lonely street corners
Used as impromptu stages
While fingers of fog probe…searching tentatively…
Testing and tasting
Self-written songs ghost into the night
Tremulous voices, hopefully singing
Few people stop, even less truly listen
Some dropping change in foam cups at their sides
All the while fog sniffs like dogs, at ankles and feet
Touching, licking, testing and tasting
Too young to truly know of their songs deep emotions
Thinking they’ve suffered already most sorrows
More mist now…then music, swirling together
Grey miasma pulling shroud over sound and
The fog slowly thickens,
like pudding congealing
Rising up, bubbling
groping and grasping. Testing and tasting
Some on their corners, in the fog, stay too long
Feral fog surrounds them and bodies dissolve
Then slowly resolve, as if undecided
whether to stay or become haze
Fog softens their sad songs, seems to pull them away
Absorbing them in it’s tentacles
Sucking and pulling, testing and tasting
Grey billows pull capes to their eyes and slink back unwillingly
To the bay as the sun slowly rises
Slowly, so slowly, as if draggiing resistant, reluctant, victims
Wrapped within it’s folds and furls
While appearing still to be
Groping and fondling, testing and tasting
The fogs final retreat, the last vestiges dissipating
Revealing hand-written, hopeful, scattered, sheet music
Strewn on a few empty corners
A few melancholy musicians less tonight
No one will miss them
The fog has found them to it’s liking
has tested and tasted…and taken
poem by David Whalen
Added by Poetry Lover
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