Fog

by Michael Palma

Sometimes, like an old clipping
I carry around with me,
I unfold the time we went,
For no particular reason,
For a weekend on Cape Cod.
We’d driven all day long
Through wet and dirty weather.
Fog had begun to cling
To everything by the time
We came to our motel.
We couldn’t see a thing
As we crossed the empty road
Hand in hand, except
A misty blob of moon
From the streetlight overhead.
Once in the restaurant
We settled comfortably
In the corner, just as we
Had settled into years
Of marriage.  Later on,
In the fog heavy air
On the motel balcony
We looked out toward the ocean.
Though nothing was in sight
We knew that it was there.
By then I’m sure we were
Too tired to touch.  Just one
Unmemorable night
I remember now and then
And think of, happily,
For no particular reason.