If There Was a Caution Sign You Took No Heed

I've been fond of the online journal Right Hand Pointing for a while now, and not just because the editors have put me in it a couple times.   RHP specializes in very short poems, and I enjoy the challenge for myself of whittling a poem down the the absolute essential.  It (they?) also publishes and promotes prose poems, that grey area where prose and poetry meet and shake hands, or wrestle, or smooch.

The digital chapbook side of the endeavor is called White Knuckle Press.  Here's "Fog," by Stephani Schaefer, from her short-short collection Coming in For a Landing. Go on and read the rest of the collection now.  Go on, I'll wait right here.  (The fog image is borrowed from this fine blog of images from my home state of Michigan.)

Fog

One day you walk off into fog. If there was a caution sign you took no heed. Others are here, wrapped in their private clouds. This is the writing life. Prepare yourself for years of wandering, drawn to back roads and footpaths, then marshland without a path, steeped in fog.

One day you go up your back steps and wonder if this is your house after all, and this your chair. Safe in the warm circle of light falling on a page, you look up. Your dog is watching you, his gaze so intense you might be a small animal.