60. Fog

The faded, sometimes missing line

at the highway’s edge conspires this morning

with fog, a moving dome of uncertainty,

and the muscle in my chest that clenches

and relaxes tamely now but picks

secret reasons and moments to race,

bored by its mundane life, its narrow

choices: beat day and night. Or stop.

Nurses plug their patients into machines—

we are piecework—collect their printouts,

and the shiny doctor descends, thumps,

taps, listens, says, “Take your pulse often.”

As in the song, I think, “Keep a close watch,”

but don’t say it, and shut the doors gently

so not to alarm the hovering fog.
Roland Sodowsky worked in Kansas wheat fields as a teenager. His books include Things We Lose, an AWP award winner, Interim in the Desert, Un-Due West, and poetry and fiction in Atlantic Monthly and Midwest Quarterly, among others. A 2009 Kansas Voices winner, he lives with his wife, Laura Lee Washburn, in Pittsburg, KS.


One thought on “60. Fog

  1. I just love your description of fog as “a moving dome of uncertainty.” Well put and most accurate!

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