cliché musings

droplets splatter brick-paved streets, coat the hair

in grease of those unlucky enough to forget their shelter.

well, some just choose not to care.

after all, what does a little water do, other than soak

the remains of your dignity, wash the clothes already

washed the night before, create a temporary inconvenience?

a polka-dotted umbrella. one clear. another solid blue,

another as dark as the morning. it must be reinventing

the wheel, a necessity that dates back to at least 1877 on

a Paris street, maybe longer, but who could know?

sometimes a girl wants to say fuck the umbrella, 

fuck the french imortalizing umbrella propoganda,

oil on canvas, protecting fancy reputations and

the awakening industrial capitalism.

if i had ran out the door without one of their overhead

bubbles, over bricked-paved paths, one that turns 

into dirt and gravel, down to cool metal covered 

with a layer of rain, what would the businessmen

think? would their wives whisper to their friends,

my God, she’s gone mad? i know i was one of the

few, or maybe part of the unheard majority, who

didn’t care. i wanted to hunch over a bench and

have water of an unknown source run down the

length of my cheeks.