One Of Those Days

I saw the sun last on Christmas day,
oddly pushing through clouds of storm.
It's now mid January, deep in winter,
with dark clinging to each morning.

From my window, I watch the rolling
fog climb from the valley,
its weight pressing the hills, swallowing
the landscape in slow steady gulps.

I breath the flat, cold air that pushes
in though the open window
and, robot-like, I feed in innocence.

The fog addles
my brain, makes me dizzy.

I think of the restless controllers,
sitting their lonely vigils,
peering surreptitiously,
counting, noting.

I think of the angry piano lady
who abandons her home while
the downstairs expatriates
wrap their boredom
in layers of contrasting music.

There is a phantasmagorical perfection
in these images that aids my confusion.
The church clock droning weakly
through the mist mirrors my despair.