the pink umbrella screamed out emergency; storm water filling it up, alone wind-nipped and soaking upside-down reflecting a big star-filled sky. the abandoned sweet thing, the pink umbrella, sang its sound as much as muchness would allow. spinning in and out of uncharted circles roughly against black tar. crying out for a hand to hold it firm, rescue from this chaotic storm.
the pink umbrella bent and mangled, broken from pelting and wind, transformed into art. inside my poem, inside my head. forever this syrup-sweet pink umbrella wanting, waiting, wailing–left to the storm. still lost, still alone and unclaimed.
my view surrenders to the turn and darkness of night swallows up the pink umbrella.