Hannah Louise Poston
The Pink Umbrella
The pink umbrella spread apart its crepe
when you shoved it into shape.
Its handle was a neat brass post
thick as a woman's thumb at most
and hardly longer than a jawbone.
Its skinny spine was rattle-prone.
Seized beneath a nimbostratus sky,
it could have kept me dry,
but wasn't big enough to shelter two,
even walking arm-in-arm with you.
The pink umbrella had twelve ribs
that ended in twelve safety nibs.
I loved it open, in the rain's roar,
I loved it open, drying on the floor,
but it was breathtaking wrapped,
half as thin as my wrist when snapped
closed and dangling on its jewelry-chain.
I loved it best on days it didn't rain.