RibSong
Anna Chandler
The umbrella is its own melody
That pours from its mouth that widens when you open it.
The aluminum frame tastes the rain,
And the handle sustains the last note in a metallic display
Accompanied by raindrop percussion.
The silver pupil of the black eye worriedly sees the lightning
Snapping clouds and trees in two
Its reflective surface touching each note
Feeling the cool highs and lows.
Just one drenched fellow after another,
Each umbrella preoccupied in its own singing.
Flecks of splendor drip from the points
Until the umbrella folds itself up and walks out of the city crush,
Slipping itself under its arm for safekeeping
And makes its way towards warm weather.