My umbrella is blue and white,
with spots of rust where the bones
and joints of this ancient pterodactyl
have bled into its skin.
More than once I have gone back
to some coffee shop or restaurant
to rescue my umbrella from under chairs
or from the Lost and Found,
which umbrellas call The Orphanage,
and where on moonlit nights they gather,
whispering of how their People
will return at last to claim them.
They do not talk about the ones
flung off in wrath,
their limbs awry and twisted,
their People stomping them in fury.
On sidewalks and in vestibules or getting into cars,
they are pounded, torn and kicked, jammed
headfirst into trash bins, abandoned in
the gutter — ancient birds brought down at last.
My umbrella rolls around the floor
of the back seat in my old car,
to live its days in comfort there,
stained, arthritic, loved with care.