It opens wide in cloudless sun,
Prepared for rain that never comes.
But when the storm arrives with force,
It folds itself without remorse.
The wind flips ribs like elastic tricks,
One wire pokes, another sticks.
I wrestle rain with broken pride,
While passersby enjoy the ride.
It leaks politely on my shoe,
Pretends that’s what umbrellas do.
The handle squeaks like tired truth,
A warning signed in brittle youth.
I threaten bins, replacement plans,
It shakes itself of my hands.
Then later dries with wounded grace,
As if it won some noble race.
Still I carry it everywhere,
A flawed defender of damp despair.
It hates the job it claims to own,
Yet leaves me wetter, not alone.
