In - Andrew Hudgins

When we first heard from blocks away

the fog truck’s blustery roar,

we dropped our toys, leapt from our meals,

and scrambled out the door

into an evening briefly fuzzy.

We yearned to be transformed—

translated past confining flesh

to disembodied spirit. We swarmed

in thick smoke, taking human form

before we blurred again,

turned vague and then invisible,

in temporary heaven.

Freed of bodies by the fog,

we laughed, we sang, we shouted.

We were our voices, nothing else.

Voice was all we wanted.

The white clouds tumbled down our streets

pursued by spellbound children

who chased the most distorting clouds,

ecstatic in the poison.