Fog on Golden Gate

Dawn was a Cyclops eyed volcano boiling
Across the bay, washed in earthbound clouds
Cars were swathed in dreamlike cotton candy
And in the city; buildings wrapped in shrouds

Stoplight of sun burns on hazy highway of life
Blinding daily drivers on their halted commute
Swallowed by fog’s vaporous tendrils gripping
Mechanical gypsies circumnavigate their route

Ancient morning has grown a beard like snow
From hairy smoke and steam along the ridge
White blankets drift across the highway below
Enveloping as they float; both river and bridge

Tug horns in harbor sound for ships in mist
The black and white world is a Bogart movie
A pink smudge of rouge stains the dreamy distance
Until taillights appear with makeup on cue