The fog settles

in like your mother-in-law

but not even her mouth

can drown out the

revving of the engines.

High octane scream.

Tires burn out just before

the rain pours. Our shadows are black

and they cast out long.

Packs of roaming dogs

threaten our death.

We'd feel a little more

secure, if we didn't live

under these high-tension wires.
I have no place to sit.

There is no shade.

The bare trees have been

cut-down like Dutch Schultz

standing at his urinal.

What is all that noise?

Where does it come from?

Why does it have to be so loud?

The bare trees have been

cut-down like Dutch Schultz

at his urinal.
The fog roles out,

but the engine only stutters.

I'll push you in a wheelbarrow

and we'll chase the storm.