6: 58 A.M.

driving down the hill I
looked out over the
sprawling town

and smirked at the layer
of cotton laid out like
a blanket over the sleeping town

and I hoped that the town would
squirm and smother under
that fog blanket

but when I got into town I
looked up and saw the same
lonely sky I see every morning

such false hopes

by Chester Whitfield

Other poems of WHITFIELD (9)

Comments (1)

The beauty of the sky can be deceiving. Look around the blanket. Splendid imagery you have displayed. Patricia Gale