The Umbrella

The umbrella was a nice color.

The people passed as they often do

Uncertainty on every face as if to say;

Will this rain ever end?

The umbrella leaned on his shoulder

confidant and friend

separated him from the rest of the world

yet the rain falls on everyone and as it did

he recalled a bus.

A bus that was headed somewhere and giving you reprieve from the day

and its formalities, lucid mundane structure,

that if nothing else was enough to dehumanize you and drive you crazy

yet the umbrella kept her dry.

She wore her new shoes still and recalled

a letter she needed to mail before the week was over.

Just then, the umbrella opened fully and everybody seems to know someone.

And if that was me across the street under a pink umbrella, I guess

I would be happy.