Poem: Of Umbrellas And Choices

“Where’s your umbrella?”
You say smiling to me.
It’s often like that
A question layered with assumptions.
I want to tell you
Many things.
Like every umbrella
I have ever had
Has been torn apart
By wind and rain
For which
I can only fault
My weak grip.
Or perhaps
I shall explain
That when your income
Is mere ODSP
You make choices.
And I tend to choose
Simple pleasures
Like food and music
Film, television, books
Over a fancy umbrella
That won’t last more
Than a couple of storms
In these hands of mine.
Instead I smile
And I laugh
And say
“I don’t have one.
Umbrellas don’t like me
For some weird reason.”