The rain came back, so long since we’d seen it

I went outside waiting, listening for it,

trying not to draw parallels to my dry

January: Dawn and I got a table

at the steakhouse, a split of bubbly,

and me, a 20 oz. ribeye I ate all of,

including the fat—

In the morning my head hurt, but I walked

to the lake feeling old, feeling more alive, though:

then laid on the sofa in our den

with no sound but the clock and the dog

shifting, letting the kids sleep in,

making plans, drinking water,

remembering what I could of

past Februarys, hoping for snow,

knowing no more, feeling

no pressure to, wanting

to be a better man, but

sure to forget

again, in the morning.

Categories: identity, poetry, writing

Tags: pacific northwest, poem, poetry, William Pearse writer