With all due respect, Carl Sandburg,
the fog doesn’t always come on little cat feet.
Have you ever driven down the Pacific Highway?
Fog looms up from the shadowy sea,
hulking across the horizon.
Lately, high jinks whirl into thick mist,
clogging my brain, an impenetrable barrier
between memory and me.
Hearing aids lost and discovered
in my jewelry box,
earrings on the night table my only clue.
Frenzied search for eyeglasses,
no memory of lobbing them
from the bathtub into my pot of English Ivy.
Miasma squats in my brain.
Is it permanent or can it be torn down
like the Berlin Wall, chunks peddled on Ebay
venerated on Antiques Roadshow?
mobbed by crowds
at the Museum of Modern Art?
Walking through memories,
I can describe the red plaid dress
I wore the first day of junior high,
name my cross-eyed French teacher,
but searching for my car at Ocean Beach,
I stumble into thick fog.