Fog Poem by Stan Petrovich

All is still-
The trees across the park
Hang silent in the fog;
My mind is also quiet
And lurks in my back pocket, as I sit
Covemplative on a white slower chair.
The stars are up there, but
Cannot, of course, be seen.
It is the finest night
There has ever been.

Across the street now
A lonely couple walks by,
Hand-in-hand,
In the humid drip
Of the eaves of common condensation.
I hear no conversation,
Only their whisperings,
Of which I used to be familiar.
And even my own verbal thoughts
Remain silent as a leaf.