Schrödinger is a man named Sandburg
When the fog comes on little cat feet
And stealthy is the creep of the opaque
That imbues the real world with dread
From the harbor to the city
From the hopeful to the hopeless
From the living to the dead
Then the rising murk eats the edifices, one story at a time, with the cowards taking to the flights going up
Until there are neither more stories nor upstairs—only down, one-way
And when the fog clears, those who were enveloped within it are either dead or alive
Left behind or carried away
It’s an all-or-none thing
And it’s terrifying
I pay attention to the weather
And I fear the dew point and the humidity, akin to the viewpoint and the stupidity
For that is how folks die from the fog thus produced
And no one can stop a mob or a fog
The sneakiest political thing I’ve ever written.
You have a unique style of writing, Gerard. I'm getting used to the inflections in your 'voice' and I have to say, I enjoy your writing. Thank you for the introduction.