somebody rang out the sky of it's blue,
leaving
the water heavy gray mist, to mope among the
trees, the brush, the cars, the people, the
streets with buildings and light poles until
the Sun,
surfaces,
highlighting the ***** dishwater hanging about
and no bubbles
to lighten the somber mood of the day.

oh but, this mist has moved up to fog status,
the soup you walk through, drive through
breathing in the
odor of all that has passed this way and left
behind what the fog has bitten out of them,
or they paid as a toll, so the fog doesn't
demand it all.

until someday the water table will get excited
again and let the droplets fall,
and fog becomes mist then nothing at all,
and returns the blue to the patch of sky,
which I spy with my little eye.