by Michael Chitwood
The ribbed black of the umbrella
is an argument for the existence of God,
that little shelter
we carry with us
and may forget
beside a chair
in a committee meeting
we did not especially want to attend.
What a beautiful word, umbrella.
A shade to be opened.
Like a bat’s wing, scalloped.
It shivers.
A drum head
beaten by the silver sticks
of rain
and I do not have mine
and so the rain showers me.
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