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Umbrella: Customer Care

 

Humans are a series of feathers
left inside-out. You are out
in the rain, pacing from one eve

to another, looking up
at the splintered gutters, left
cracked from last year’s

Michigan winter. At the door, you take
the world inside—one footprint
from the dirt path, a stone

from the park. Then, the disconnect:
all the croaking frogs and birds
chirping with the coming storm

are left in the trees; here,
there is a television,
warning signs. You point at the object

in your hands, and like a silent film,
she is at your side, touching
your arm, and pointing back.

Beneath her finger, there is
a small button, and a label that says,
Open here.

 

 

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Published inBlogging & PoemsMy PoemsMy Writing Challenges

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