Fog’s upon the city
like a wedding veil;
4 a.m., very pretty,
very quiet and serene
like a vision from some dream.
Fog’s upon the city
like the Manifest Hangover
of the Collective Unconscious
now that the bars all over town
have let their lights and eyelids down
and everyone’s repaired to Pillow Town.
There’s the music of freight mains
pulling off in the distance;
that sound that Progress
has married to the Earth,
but there’s precious little else
for what it’s worth.
Kind of Eerie, kind of nice
the odd cab or cop car cruising slices
these back streets head lights
like needles unravelling
the doily fabric of the Atmosphere.
Or, some eighteen wheeler
on an all night trek
might come by once per hour
rattling like a wreck
but, in the spaces in between
it’s amazing what you hear.
You hear nothing
and it sounds so good
ringing like a chime
all around the neighbourhood
‘cuz the fog’s upon the city
like a wedding veil, and
it’s Insomniac’s delight tonight
cuz a night so deep
scarcely makes you realize that
you’re really not asleep.
© Ian David Arlett, 2014
Peterborough Poets 