40 Miles per Hour because of the Fog

We drove off that morning
Through the fog lining the valley
The heater turned to low
blowing its lukewarm breeze

“You have your ticket?”
A pat to the chest to confirm
“Will the fog delay your flight?”
Something neither of us wish

The landscape has lost its contours
Fuzzy edges on what we pass
What was once so clearly defined
Is shapeless or gone

“We should maybe... sorry”
“I think we can... sorry”
Our words collide, mix and combine.
“Sorry, you first” we both say.

The heater mummers
The fog is caught in the trees
We watch the grey of the day
And have nothing,

Absolutely nothing to say.