what will seasons think

i like foggy nights
my headlights shine and make a little patch of sight for me
and oh the things i can see
fenceless fence posts stick up around me
they wither but stand still, like old men’s teeth
my lights shine off bright signs of numbers and symbols, resting periodically above the posts
and yellows and whites snake along the ground that is as black as the sky
their headless bodies slither almost sensuously for miles, enticing me all the while
and i wonder how the trees will like them when we are gone
and i wonder if the blades of grass will grow high and mingle with the signs
and what will seasons think
and how will the moon compare to my headlights
and beyond these are the shadows of trees, with thousands of fingers pointing skyward
branches stretching like lazy sleepers in midafternoon
their tiny cousins, bushes, rest where they have not been removed for the posts
and all the darkness beyond
but in the darkness, trees are not all
things form in the corner of my eyes
what monsters lurk behind these trees
what birds sleep in them, unbothered
what worms are burrowing, what flowers are pollinating, what cats are dying, what dogs are making puppies, what mass murderers are hiding inside the bushes in this late hour
what will the seasons think about the things in the darkness
crickets play lullabies or maybe soliloquies for squirrels, bobcats, perverts, and snakes with mysterious agendas in such odd hours
and the fog’s mist lays an ominous blanket over all
and the blanket intrigues me further
what houses rest in hidden fields
what children sleep in beds
how many children are crying, how many wives are blissful
further along the snakes and signs, mouths of black tunnels open up at me
shady side streets that almost disappear in foggy nights
and i think about those streets, and those houses
how many men are sitting in their recliners in this late hour, watching television in a dark room
what are they watching, what thoughts are they avoiding
i wonder if the dogs are outside or in
i wonder if the refrigerator is full, if the children have nitelights
so many variations
what was my life like, i wonder
what thoughts did i have that they do too
i wonder what warm beds they sleep in
what shampoo they will use in the morning, what the alarm clocks will sound like
so many variations
so many secrets
i try to picture myself in the recliners
in the long, silent nights of hiding or forgetting or remembering
i try to feel the secrets, smell the secrets as if we could breath them in and out instead of air
and what will seasons think
how is autumn against the windows as a bored child stares out into the rain
how is summer in the backyards
how is winter in the bedroom
and how is spring in their minds
and do they ever think of the possibilities a foggy night offers
i heard of a man who cut a baby open, emptied its insides and replaced them with cocaine
and i wonder if he is in the bushes, or walking along the road
if he is a hitchhiker, will i pick him up
and i heard of a man who saved a child from a fiery house
and is he in the darkness
and will i leave him on the side of the road
and what will poppy seeds think of our snaky intersections
what will yellow moonlight think of green and red lights, trading places relentlessly
what will fog think of my headlights exposing its mysterious textures
what would a day think if night’s surprises were to be let loose
what would a monster do behind a tree
where would a mass murderer hide
and how would the man in the recliner like the day’s glare on his tv and his problems
and would the cats keep dying and would the dogs keep making puppies
and would the fenceless posts still look like old men’s teeth in the day’s revealing light
and what will seasons think
when we are gone
and the foggy nights will still dance with a static made from our leftover thoughts
and our abandoned secrets will waft and form clouds above
and it will be as mysterious as the foggy night