Raindrops pellet the pavement
so you can’t see whether they fall down
or jump up.
The puddles, with heavy clouds caught in them,
are windows into the sky
that perches above like a lid
that must not be uncovered for fear
of spilling the essence.
Wet, sticky leaves on the black branches
burden my grave
as I watch you
in your resplendent red dress
under the black umbrella
that you nicked from the rack in the hall
with the same ease you nicked my devotion.
Your shameless eyes look at me
and smile and then you turn away
in the red fog of billowing skirts
and I know I will never see
the umbrella again.

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  1. Dr. Hurley’s Digest: Week Twelve « Dr. Hurley's Snake-Oil Cure
  2. Dr. Hurley’s Digest Volume I: Poetry « Dr. Hurley's Snake-Oil Cure

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