Bony trees blurred in November fog.
Not a sound from the park or the old man below.
The kids above must have frozen mid-romp.
Has the world stopped? And how should I know?

Is there really no sound? Or it’s me that can’t hear?
The print is smudged in my failing sight
And under my feet the earth is adrift.
Who’s that in my mirror? So bloated? So white?

I slip into sleep. And awake to the phone!
Is it midnight or noon? I do not know.
Have I missed the plane? Am I late for class?
I raise the receiver and say “Hello?”