I just found this silly poem I wrote my last semester at NYU. Dedicated to all the lost, broken umbrellas who are victims of New York City rain and wind.
You with your abandoned silver leggy spokes
twisted broken warped to some demented form of neglect, diseased.
drip drips in God’s puddles, where are your hands?
Where is your owner, the one who spent 15.99 in a squeaky shiny linoleum
Your owner who coveted such breath under a palpitating storm,
befriended and mended your crooked little spokes when you were still new,
where are they now?
Feet pitter patter away into sidewalk caves
because you are no match for New York City wind and it’s kind of like seventh grade friendships
It’s quantity over quality, baby.
We had our secret glances and two-cent penny lint pocket grins,
we had our moment and we let it go.
I let you go on Third Avenue because at least there’s more traffic there and perhaps you’ll get some sympathy.
I let you go just as I entered Silver because buildings and suffocating atmospheres are no place for you my little bent backwards time-to-improve friend.
I let you go,
hovering on my Welcome/Goodbye doormat saying we’d maybe meet again another day but really I knew all along this was just step 1 in abandoning you.
I see your friends,
limp legs peeking ‘Hello!’ out of pedestrian waste,
I see your friends hugging the bricks,
I see your friends and feel your friends I won’t heal your friends as my feet crunch crunch lifeless cousins of yours, blue green black polka dot
you weren’t really even worth 15.99.
I want my money back Duane.