Pigeons, pork chops, maybe

In the Pacific Northwest, where I live, all about me is floods, landslides, and endless wet. For days that wear like weeks, we've been saturated in rain and gray. And gray is more than weather.

Against Gray

Mold. Mice. A tough porkchop.
The angry ocean.

Old carpet.
Seagulls, pigeons, worms.
Trash can. Concrete.

Seattle. Portland. Dusk.
The pull of sadness.
Worn cedar siding. Wind.

Mullett, tuna, catfish, dead fish.
The words maybe    almost.

Black and white photos dimmed with time.
Late night television of my youth.

Oatmeal. Gravel. Cigarette smoke. Dust.

Old man eyebrows, wiry and wandering.
Women who’ve given up.
Oyster shells. Fog.

The flu. A murky x-ray.
Loneliness is a shadow.

Mornings without my glasses.
Bullets, battleships, steel.
Mushrooms. Sweat stains. Dirty socks.

Barbells. Knife. Wrench.
Clenched jaw.

Dirty dishwater. Sideways rain.

In the distance, you.

- Drew Myron