The Fog Comes In

The cat paced back and forth
looking for Robinson no doubt,
a little claw scratching Milpitas

while Robinson himself hauled-ass
in his 1954 Plymouth Savoy,
a toy fire engine safely in its toy firehouse.

The cops are piloted like cake,
they sleep about the city
while their wives cheat on them.

Robinson starts to slow down,
time in a quart of oil looks black.
The outside world holds up a hand.

There’s not much we can do
about the car door made of metal
if we are only made of flesh.

Robinson wrote a poem about Robinson.
Back in the apartment
the cat appears to have written Sanskrit.

The fog comes in wearing a skirt
that looks familiar enough to abandon
and to renege on a button.