Country Fog

There’s no harbor here.
Not a city near by
for a cat to watch from her haunches,
all silent and stealth.

Instead, there’s an open field,
plowed clean this time of year.

And the fog comes,
staggers really,
a boozy, woozy sluggard,
punch drunk on last night’s rainstorm.
It loiters at Morning’s doorstep
in a heavy stupor,
too slumberous to move on.