Midwestern Gothics

The fog

In the witching hour a fog settles heavy over everything

It pushes down on the roof and the grass and the tree and

It pushes down on you

You awake up later and you wake up late,

But you got up and dressed and left for work?

And yet you are in you bed and you are late

The headlights illuminates the swirls of fog

Speed knowing you shouldn't but you've got work

You pray you make it without incident

All the way there the road is hidden

All the way there it stretches on and on and on

All the way there your GPS says 30 minutes

The corn rustles angrily ears alert, eyes watching

You hope it stays rooted in the fields where it belongs

Your insurance doesn't cover things in the corn

The sounds of roadwork overtake you distorted in the fog

As you drive by you see them damp and rotted and groaning

This gives a whole new meaning to the term skeleton crew

The not deer dart across the lanes leaving the stench of dread

You wonder idlily if they are unafraid of the corn or of the corn

You know that either way they are getting far to close

On the edge of the fogbank sits a car you know you have seen at work

Empty on the side of the road yet so full of or perhaps so devoid of potentials

You look straight ahead and try to ignore it lest your truck wind up the same

Out of the fog the sun shines and you arrive at work on time

The cold lingers in your bones but it lingers in everyone's bones