Mist by Jeff Burt
Today the mist has pockets,
holes in the seams, some
as small as a finger might
fit and wiggle free,
others as if the entire lining
has been ripped from the bottom
and the pocket is soon to wither
thinning to a dazzling white cuff
at the end of a waiter’s white sleeve
and what it serves, it serves.
You are grateful. You take it.
Jeff Burt lives in Santa Cruz County with his wife, and works in mental health. He has contributed previously to Trouvaille Review, Heartwood, Your Daily Poem, Williwaw Journal, and Red Wolf Journal.