Returning from a cross country trip in 1975,
I whooped in astonishment as I drove up the
Fell Street hill after 2000 miles of flat.
Revving up from the bowels of the city
Leery and exhilirated
You see fog attack the sun
Block after block
Until fog wins
And you feel creepy
Running on empty
Wind out of your sails
It never fails.
Rather than sunshine at the end of a fabled nation
There’s cold wind and trees
Dripping all this condensation.
Copyright © 2022 by David Vaszko