Fog in Michigan

The big tire beside the highway,
the blue bridge, billboards, and all
marks of a flat land vanish.
You miss your exit and get off
on a truck route. At a light
you peer into fog, watch
it swallow all but the last few
streetlights, and think of your wife
sharing news at breakfast.
Only the last of her words reach
your failing ears, so you invent
what you miss when you can.
But your stratagem has its flaws.
A light changes and you growl
forward, boring halogen tunnels
in the cloud. You blink and plod.
Behind you, the night closes
with an unheard eraser sweep,
a chalkboard going dark
in an empty school, a station’s
signal lisping into radio fuzz.