a poem on preparation and great wetness
i have beencarrying my umbrella in the bottom of my bag for fucking weeks. it hasn't been in hope it would rain, but in preparation for the downpour i knew would fall on me at the least opportune and most awful of moments.
this is always the case.
so there it sat in bottom of bag for day upon day like contraband or a book i claimed to be reading when at last began a squall of great violence at of course that least of my moments, hands half full with candy bar and toilet paper from a half-assed grocery run on the way to the train.
i smoothly extract the umbrella from bottom of bag and spin it in hand with the false confidence of the poorly prepared. the button is pressed. the umbrella is broken. and now here am i:
half broken umbrella doing as good as a hat over my soaking cold body and my slowly more useless toilet paper from my half assed grocery run, wondering what is the use of a man's preparation if it breaks when the time comes to deploy?