Likely he found it just now
among her things which he’d been
meaning to give away.
Her pearlized beige umbrella
with a poodle on it.
Clearly it was hers
and he took it with him,
escorting it through this winter rain,
giving it, once more, his tweedy arm,
his lopsided support,
over slick-wet curbs and
The iridescent plastic picks up
the light from the street lamps
and colors the air around
his face, lights up one
large hairy ear.
I’d rather think
that she handed it to him,
just now, as he left
on some reluctant errand —
hastily pushed it past
the screen door where he stood,
hunched, wet and impatient,
sandwiched in that limbo between
aluminum and wood,
eager now to get on with it (a list
in his pocket saying “Coffee,
I’d like to imagine her impatient dismissal
of his objections: It’ll keep you
dry all the same, won’t it?”
and he’d saunter off — holding it
like an ice cream cone, grumbling
that if she’s so damn practical
why didn’t she choose a more
practical color? Black, for instance.
Or brown. I mean: a poodle?
I say I’d like to think that
she handed him her most
ready-to hand umbrella,
but, it’s so clearly antique
and just too fresh to have been
used all these years. So:
he found it.
Amongst her things
that he really meant to give away.
And he took it with him
for company, remembering
her promise that it would keep
all the same.
(c) 2010 Catherine Weaver All rights reserved.