by Jonah Webster
Fog lights tear through
A humid night
My vision has always
Underestimated the rain;
Somewhere, she sits
lonely
In a dark room
Her emerald eyes
Staring at a screen
And wishing for me,
I travel a road of many
Wanderers, salesman,
Clergymen, and thieves
On a gilded path inlaid
With cantaloupe and plum,
I am known to be wrong;
But I alone hear the drum
Of the frogs to the moon
Through the air, and
I think I see her waiting now,
Despite my poor sight
Fog lights tear through
A humid night