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Poetry
by Ruth Hill
Fading
Into Fog
The foggy grey steals you away,
as I float aimlessly from the dock.
I see you standing there with tan skin
and jet black hair, all turning foggy grey.
The pilings and boards,
salt-polished silver, all foggy grey.
The drops on your hat splash silver, then fade.
The buildings we painted together: foggy grey.
The way you related to me: like a late, great fog.
The children we created, fading into a fog of depression,
waiting for the sky to clear.
I watch as your skin turns ghostly white,
your hair, too, as white as sunlight through the fog.
No decision, no word, no commitment, just fuzz.
No red of passion.
No red of action.
No red like the lighthouse rooves, beacons of hope,
peaks poking above the fog.
No red oxide paint for protection from barnacles.
No red buoys or bumpers for direction or markers.
Like a loon, I call you forever,
waiting to turn back at the slightest trill.
Nothing.
The fog swallows us all.
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Chatter-Clatter
Clinking china chinking cups
Swirling spoons spank soup-bowl sups
Girls giggle in groups of two
Wedded whisper worried woo
Rumors reflect off rafters
Mild waiter slides slyly by
Softly, so I don't know why
Fills café carafe, filet
Smirks up lips to smile for tips
Watches water and your wine
Cash register rings and coins toss
Cooks bear barking from the boss
Honking taxi takes out maxi
Menus lauded loudly, laxly
Fryers fizzle and when done, ding
Silver snaps in steely trays
Annoying noisy, nosy days
I rue redundant ring - rings
Suffer 'til sweet sparrow sings
Switch out lights, and switch on Bach
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