Tags

, , , , , , ,

It’s raining,
discerning individual
drops,
puddle to gather on
streets and sidewalks,
a congretation of water.

There’s a tree
with a plastic bag caught
in it’s branches I see through the fog….
until it moves
and becomes an
old white man.

Discarded booze bottles
and cigarette butts
tell tales, in mud.

The fog is lifting
and things
become clearer
everyday.

Advertisements