I bought myself an umbrella
From the shop just down the street.
I didn’t think anyone else wanted it,
But I thought it rather sweet.
It was once bright red, but now like rust,
With a spoke, bent and rusting too.
And to the right, above my head,
There was a hole for the rain to fall through.
When I bought myself this umbrella,
The shop owner repressed a smile.
“I can’t imagine why you’d want it,” said he,
“It’s been knocking around for a while.”
“Because it smells like stories,” I replied,
“And of books that have never been read.
“And I believe whatever the weather,
“That’s something I’d want above my head.”
The man gave a shrug and took my change,
And he offered me a bag.
“To protect your hair in the storm outside,” he claimed,
“It’s better than that rag.”
I thanked him politely but declined,
And opened the umbrella once I’d left his space.
It made me smile as the stories fell
Like raindrops on my face.
