Of the Windswept Umbrella (or, Healing South Africa)
Today was another bad umbrella day
and the skeletal frames of weary victims
incongruent, indignant in plastic prison garb;
were forced to gather thoughts exiled in a bin
alongside paths littered with passing, laughing eyes.
Thus whipped by wind and mirth, they
realized one by one and their feeble, battered
bodies slumped into the damp. Their downfalls
were wrapped in soliloquy, punctuated by pathos;
what’s worse, the audience was indifferent.
So, the actors who violently fled their presence
left their angry thoughts to collect on upturned
faces and shrugged aside the tired audience.
“As transparent a performance as the
rain which brought it into being…” the critics said.
And later, fingers with sense of potential
rescued these captives from uncertain fate
and lined them up for creative inspection.
I was told that these hands construct reality from
the lofty unattained, one sad umbrella at a time.
Patrick Reen © 2007