by Don Mager
The fog presses through the cold swamp of
morning and eventually takes on,
like an unfamiliar rival, the
early afternoon’s occluded light.
With its beams aimed low, each car crawls past
the other cars like old men on their
knees with flashlights quivering as they
look for pills that rolled beneath their beds.
Tree branches loom up over the road
with the menace of prehistoric
reptilian bones. But the fog digs
in its heels and hunkers down for the
few remaining hours till nightfall.
Category: Poetry, SNHU Creative Writing, SNHU online creative writing