Morning Drive, November 2019

Always we move toward it,
I up that foggy road called Hillcrest

There's no visibility today,
One of those rare mornings
As though an ancient shroud,
A milky net, has been cast down
That we move toward like fish,
Every cell in our scales beating us forward

The birds rest on power lines,
The roof of Little Caesars on Bandera

School's out,
The traffic cop prowls elsewhere

I think of carved turkey,
Dead relatives,
This claimed mystical land,
The stanzas left in my tank and
What I've done to get here
On this fog-covered road.