My umbrella is at home, Tucked away in some drawer,
under loose plastic bags and cleaning supplies.
Foolish – I left it behind, for the weatherman advised,
that today bore no signs of clouded skies.

It cannot be said that the weatherman lied,
for there is not a cloud above me, though it is raining,
Hunched over am I – to keep droplets from my eyes,
but they platter my glasses into abstract paintings.

The sun is far too bright for the rain to be believed,
and I think I see in the rippling sidewalk some deception.
The droplets on my shoulders are cold and grey;
a poor match for the suns in each puddle’s reflection.

As soon as it arrived, the rain is sudden gone,
its memory draining down the gutter.
I am left with squinted eyes and wet cheeks and cold shoulders,
and a heavy heart that cannot help but to shutter.

Photo by Geetanjal Khanna on Unsplash