Well, This Is A Fine Mist

I woke before the family yesterday

And snuck out to the kitchen for to make

The coffee ‘fore the family was awake

But th’rooms I trod were filled with mist of gray.


A fi-re, thought I, let us find the source,

But why’d th’ alarms not beep us all to life?

Why sleeps the children and why sleeps the wife?

This mist is poison, maybe. Maybe worse.


The living room I stopped to ‘nvestigate

To see the mess of toys upon the floor,

To add its cleaning to my day of chores;

The mist, alas, obscured the mess of late.


Insidious, this mist, to try to fool,

This outside fog which got in through the vents.

This house has needs; it hides the evidence,

It masks the mud tracked in the vestibule.


I cannot clean, of course, what I can’t see

And, blind to chores, I mix my coffee up.

The wife is stirring; let’s make her a cup,

So she might share my carefree reverie.


Before her, though, the fog is all dispelled,

She plows it, leaving vacuum in her wake,

The mess, the mud, now evident retake

The house. The mist’s defeated, all expelled.


I tell her ‘bout the mist when wakened I;

‘Twas all throughout the house; its make unknown.

She looks around, a seed of worry sown,

And, finding nothing, last, she checks my eyes.