The fog is playing favorites
It only disappears a few
The ones who ask nicely
Ones who seem to need it
It seems to like these steep stairs
These little narrow stairs
This long set of stairs
Going down to the river
These steep, mean stairs
With no railings
Designed for a fall
In our waterfront park
Sometimes, after much rain
The last few steps go right into the river
Under the surface
The last few stairs host us home
Silver turning of fish
That’s what their bodies do
Their own sort of fog
Down under that surface
This is terrible to admit
The fog is hyperdramatic, of course
It has the reddening feet
When it is about to give up
And ask people to just go home
The ones who hide in the fog
Who sit on steps like these


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